The dust of otherness fills up the room
As the humus dissolves — they are not dead
And I have never been myself alone,
But like crystals on a cliffside surface
As the stark sun brushes over it
There are far too many to recover,
Each unknown, unknowable — the shard of
Aeschylus, the glint of Harlowe, the glare
Of Bolden — as I am, in fact, unknown,
Despite the moments framed, the scenes replayed
From other summer operas, my life as
A dog, a treehouse fort, a baseball glove,
And all the remedial ghosts, in the winds
And in my friends, neither knowing which way
They would venture, as a knuckleball darts,
Without its own spin, between spinning worlds.
The stage has been set, with props and costumes,
An air of O'Neill waved over the lines,
And the audience knows what to expect
But ... yet ... it is always a surprise
How the past speaks its insights to our times,
How our faces seem to replace — once shadow,
Now likeness — the greater ones immortalized,
Who have lived through every demolition,
Survived each rescission and revision,
And smiled like they were the children, not us,
Who guide machines we don't know how to work,
Never bothering to learn from the books
All the pieces of ourselves that we were,
Still we stood, beyond time, confident
Beyond measure, the gallantry of youth
Wearing ancient armor, and making up
Our battle cries, as we feigned our horses
Into a fantasized war that was always real.
