Bright embroidery we make of our memories,
the flight of hours from their perches on our bookshelves desks and chairs,
the black fluttering wings of moments lost that clutters as dense as demons in the air.
And yet the light peaks through this, all of this and out into other minds,
who crouch beneath before the altars bound and loose, carrying the many words.
Add which word to many words, and the words mean less or more than they did before,
subtract each the minutes chosen for to read them, dividing our attention.
On one hand the author's head sits, seeking out the dawn of now coming morning
faintly stirring the fauna of the city, that satyr dance in clatter cop
to mate still while sharp shards of summer cut through the happenstance of waning sun.
But not contemplation aids their patterns, and they live as they live,
thoughtless like a dew, heedless as the day, slumber-less as the sky.
No red lines haunt there every track and utterance,
not errors mar the spelling of their movements.
They are, and are not, having nothing that is enough to remember,
save the sharp stabs of pain from tumbles and terrors.
To watch this borning day is to believe that all of human time,
is no more than a longer cat, chasing a longer tail.
For what will we leave behind, for who will we leave it to?