An Un-reading of My Work

Every moment consumes a life

Swells, bursts, recedes

Resides in every mind and wraps all matter

In its dissolving rind

The small things that you do

Indicate the ebbing tides of drifting instances

They pass forever and return

Somehow

Often seen as chance or fate,

Patterns are left open between those

Afraid to call each other strangers

-And there it is

Your gesture which recalls

A million moments I misplaced

Somewhere between yesterday and…

And what does my posture say?

My body has a memory for things left behind as well,

Moments stacked on moments left in moments beside themselves

I resist this cultivation of repetition,

Still heedlessly igniting a wordless oral history

Most likely drowned out by my immediate preoccupations

There’s clarity and there is disorientation

In the moments of myself I see in you

Part fraction, mid artifaction

A trace that speaks of more than it can say