I’ll be honest with you
I remember what I choose to
my mind is a circle, and the inside of the circle
is my memory
but I don’t always herd the same sheep
People appear more like articles, items,
than acute consciousnesses
you said the basement was haunted
which I saw as a dare; you had reason
I had youth
They use that phrase, “Death’s warm embrace”
in other words: it’s a kiss, a shock, a light, not a darkness
the aftereffect of someone else,
not their action but their existence, the shadow
of the doubt cast over you
smoke lacing the trees, either a chimney
or a wildfire, or both—something domestic, or feral,
or both
The summit of your own thought
was less of a peak and more of an end
your prime was less of a prime and more
of a stopping point, a minimum
which you respected with too much raw will
And you would always avoid the careful shadow,
even when it was no longer a shadow,
but a light
Your mind was corrugated with possibility
you couldn’t focus, you couldn’t
see the task, let alone complete it
Sticky with memory, intoxicated
with the concept of the present,
the future, the past—or, should I say,
the concept of the past being left behind
The past being over with,
a thing already said,
a thing already done,
a sheep already herded, so who cares
if it’s the wrong one?