by Gideon Burton
The things that circle back to us, as though,
imperfect, time repents in spiraled shame,
embarrassed that forgetting isn't tame
enough: some things will stay although they go.
As time accelerates a ballast slows
ephemera, the scale of loss reframes
and we are offered more than just the names
of losses; something pushes back the flow
as though a smothering blanket over sleep
is kicked away: old friends are friends again
but separated from the claws of place,
unfixed and fluid, living at a pace
more rhythmed to a better rhythm's end,
the tidal shallows dredged to layers deep.
Photo: flickr - Ed Yourdon