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01/18/10
The Slightest Detail
One hyper-Monday a.m., In the middle of a month of somethings or others, You awakened to the stunning realization
That you'd forgotten not the slightest detail of your life, With the exception of everything memory had buried At the far edge of dawn, in sleep's cemetery.
Who you were lay naked to its dust — A silvery shadow swirling in blurry circles, A vortex diminishing invisibility to a minuscule glimmer,
As if it were shaping the air into phonemes, Phonemes into matter more primordial than time, Matter into a language spoken by ghosts who knew you
When you were yet of this world of theirs, Conversant with the indeterminate cosmos of not, Before you were born into the reluctant keeping of is.
Suddenly, omniscience subsumed all unknowing. You were whoever, whatever, that hyper-Monday wanted. Tomorrow and yesterday would have to await your return.
01/18/10
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