The time hits twelve; the time turns past.
That’s now (then) & here (there), though.
Here I sit.
I told her of the stag of memory; of th’earth; of private moments lived; of th’night.
With gracile step, agilic poise, ‘n purity he’d leapt from th’dark off to my right-side.
I see myself still strolling.
Lapped waves wash, broken-crested – I am young.
T’was o’er ‘n through this coastly scene we traced the tracks of mem’ry.
I perform great feats.
Endless as the fires of night.
Ends; begins. Writ; collected.
The Trow’s resuscitated – see the blackwhite gable draped along in hanging baskets.
Where once I was I am no more – no longer does that me exist.
Their lines stretch finite.
Your essence, earnestly put forth unto impermanence to weather storms of whetherwhims.