Future Past

I ate a bowl of matzo ball soup, I drank a glass of red wine.

I read a book on the Hare Krishna circle’s edge.

I looked in a car window at my long dark hair; I loved the way I looked.

I walked past the nearest train, and on to the furthest.

The sun set so early, I left work in the dark, the sun set late, I left work in the light.

I spent money. I bought a dress for eight dollars with a hole in the hem.

I woke up to snow. I slept with a fan to my face. It was so hot I thought it must be love.

I had time before class. I knew where to get coffee with milk steamed just right.

I fell asleep in the coffee shop and no one said a word.

I went to the same place every day and never learned anyone’s name.

I heard the bus outside on Sunday mornings, and other mornings, I heard it and I slept. 

I don’t remember what I cooked; I remember splashing chili on the walls

I stayed later than everyone else, and the floor shook and I closed my eyes.

The truth is there was never much time.

I just want to walk. From here to anywhere else. 

A glimpse of the heaviness of life, a song from 500 years ago.

The railroads and the mills and the clocks made us weightless,

and still weightless more the screen where now I write

memories of solitude meaning nothing if not, I hope, predicting age

and easing unknown deaths to come

and easing unknown life