Yet you forget you are all of us;
The volumes you can't quite consume
Came, in the beginning, from you
-- And so much missing!
The Alexandria Library, for instance
The moments of your memory
Pulled away in pullullating sunlight
There are too many clues,
None lead to certainty
But veer instead to corners
Where the dark itself seems an answer
So profound is the remembrance,
And so remote
Lifetimes feel the strain of this lifetime,
They peel off from its photos and our eyes
Humming in a frequency
A dexi-quaver away
With the ogre gurus
And the time machines
Cordoning like wardens
What can be known of the past
For it is only past
As our minds conceive it
It's ongoing, for the turn there comes
From the turn here --
As the tree that blows to one side now
Extends the growth of all the trees before
And speaks to us always, in a way
That we can't -- must not -- hear
Except with its waving
That tells us of something
We can make it anything we wish
And how could we ever be wrong?
