What feels like Now is never heavy enough
to last longer than a Sunday.
Idle times like June, we tend to wander too far,
it takes august
to bring us back to routine.
Presently, reading.
Presently writing
Then and Now lying in front of me,
blurred by biography autonomously-
whose voice is lost in the amplified volume
of imposition
whose own prosaic tome is never true or tight enough
to carry the note all the way,
to cut the final folio, to fill the flyleaves.
More memory appalls dead weight
one will carry to the cemetery, nary a soul should know
Those things, flammable flashbacks attack hard back, unhinged
in carnation
in damnation
in citation,
My cover slowly singing, smoldering as I am oldering,
lighter
Now (transparent)
on paper backs.
