Don’t let them fade.
A million seeds, a million more:
the boy-child sown and scattered.
The same big band, the same man’s voice.
I need to learn to look, to gaze, at the pitch
of the passing ‘tween the tunnel’s either end.
Time-warped scraps – the dream continues on,
unphased by the approaching of its limits.
Wearing, proud, the wind that weaves without,
and now within,
the wistless soul that falls out free across the shoulders.
And here I am in that moment,
leafing through the scattered others.