Today, an apple and
one dusty walk down
a road that means
nothing to me.
Its stories belong
elsewhere, to another
heartbeat, another
fold of neurons
perhaps walking
my old road out west.
Still, in this
moment, here I am, all
that exists on this whole track,
indifferent, melancholy.
I walk as if even now is
long ago. Who am I,
who do I think I am, to be
intruding on this track that
belongs intimately to others’
memory, nothing to my own and
what sort of time is this, diaphanous
as passing dragonfly’s
wings, water …
already gone.
orphan poems 