old images


return to old images: the sea, the quarry, the heart,
though they are all really the same thing. i try to
gauge my memory like a galileo thermometer, color-
coding each floating tag with words to differentiate
between them and the dream: this happened here, this
happened then. but what is happening now. the present
is always there yet is always so elusive, like trying
to grab water from the spring of permanence, which
at least you know for sure is part of the dream.
in the quarry i mine for something greater than
gold, but i cannot tell you what it is for i do
not yet know myself. the sea has a permanent low
tide, and no longer remembers me. and the heart–
my heart is a vast room that i fill with furniture
that sinks into the floor and leaves me nothing to
rest on. there are wet cement prints from where i
walk that never dry, only smear until i can’t tell
where i once walked and where i thought you followed
me. now i move in circles, tracing back over my own
steps, where i trip and fall and trip and fall
and still do not wake up.

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