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01/10/10
Seven Days Later
One week ago from this Sunday night, Indeed, precisely to this 6:45 minute, I was in this same St. Louis restaurant, sipping Chianti,
Listening to my dismayed spirit and soul Despondently lament their return to civilization, From their twelve-day stay in Lake Nebagamon, Wisconsin,
Express incredulity as to how their sojourn Possibly could have passed with such fugitive rapidity That neither of them could believe they'd been gone.
Back home, seven lackluster twenty-four-hour cycles later, What I realize, or think I find plausible, anyway, Is that time always runs us down, leaves ruts in our dust,
Covers over our outlines, all traces of our fate-shapes, Commingling our histories with nothingness, And that going and coming are neither there nor here.
01/10/10
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