Moments
Moments fly off and leave a trail
behind you like dust clouds.
Most settle somewhere
in the forgotten, become irretrievable,
no longer connected to your life.
Some survive and accumulate
on the sticky frame of what holds
you together, particles which,
by themselves, mean nothing,
but in number become the narrative
of your past.
Some find their way here,
arguing significance, others
bubble up as if defying gravity,
free of purpose, life's loose coin.
You spend much of your time
sorting through the odd collection,
arranging into orders
of magnitude, of pain, or joy
or how much they've shaped
who you are.
In the quiet still of evenings
when you are alone,
they seem to reanimate
and gorge like aphids
on the branches of your life.
Sleep is no refuge. They come back
in dreams dressed in different guises,
playing out the variations on a secret
fear or grind away trying to resolve
something you left
incomplete last week
or a lifetime ago. Each morning
as you come to, they rush in
to reassemble you, adding more,
and at the same time,
letting a little more of you go.
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