When the weight of experience is greater
than the mind’s capacity to remember
it operates in impressions rather than specific
details, they fade into time fog.
And now each spring I get a sense of you—
how we connected so deeply it hurt.
sudden and sharp
like the sting of a honeybee.
the both of us writhing around in the dirt,
the whole of our bodies seizing—
sacrificed to fear.
When daylight breaks through the clouds
and illuminates this budding world
with new leaves, unfurled,
soaking up all that’s bright,
it hurts the way it did when I first met you.
Because every beginning is never only a beginning,
but merely another moment
in a ceaseless string of endings;
and each ending isn’t the end of anything at all.
I no longer see in moments, but in momentum;
in every observation, a cross-section containing within it
the whole of time, churning with the instability
of collapsing formations built upon collapsing formations.
Maybe if we hide inside this series of nested dolls,
burrowing inward like fleshy naked moles,
we can finally discover our tender, pink centers
and forever ward off our partings
And maybe next spring,
instead of feeling heavy under your absence
while I tend to the fruit trees we planted together,
I’ll be so solidly rooted in the present
that I can witness the delicate unfolding
of their blossoms with a quiet grace.