Part One here

I used to think the looking back would bring about
the looking forward, would be it’s own
reward, a thing to hold on to
forever, and permanent—
the having done, the having sung, the having been.

but even using the most brain-wracked
bean, I can now barely recall a
more straight-backed
me, when I felt
every day was only another day to love.

yesterday at the park, a cat: darted out from behind a tree
& I ignored that Bald Man, chased that critter, free
like I had done years
ago, thought:
this is what it was to be alive.

but that had only been an alive then, and
not an alive I know now, which is
an alive I knew not how
to know
until a present such as this.

where the trees are only here to cast shadows
on the wall, & for us only to see them
& not miss anything
at all:
this moment, this air, this bliss.

& to understand the things that are done are truly
done, the things that are gone are truly
gone, the knowing we had has
become the knowing
we once knew, which only falls & falls, forever.

it’s hard to imagine a leaving of you, or of
a Bald Man, a home, a shed, a
porch step, a favorite
disappearing into a present we don’t yet know.

which is why it sometimes seems easier to force a
person to leave quickly, through our extreme
loving of them, than have to
worry about them
ceasing to remain ever again.

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