Peripatetic

Time was only a matter of itself,flailing around like a goose—Spread out just as oftenas it was compactedinto a point no largerthan a ball of yarn;and we went through lifelike that, thinking it ordinary

how a single line could coilaround itself like a snakesuffocating prey,

how as we ageour knees don’t feel the weightof our accumulating memories.

Once, while unraveling,I was shown a simple truth:No matter how many timesI packed my thingsand moved,

in my dreams

(our lines, refurling,woven into blankets—time, its feathersstuffed into our mattress—weightless with the wholeof history beneath us)

I am always just returning.