Out of the Nowhere
I was distracted
and could no longer recall
the thought that had just
occupied my mind.
There was only
the pleasant afterglow
of whatever it was,
a sweet residue lingering
in the place where
the thought used to be.
I was annoyed
that I'd let it go.
Most of our identity,
our past, is like this,
a vast ocean of formless haze
floating between small islands
of what's remembered.
Sometimes, that haze is toxic,
sweeping in from an unnamed
place with it poisons
deposited by an event
long erased of detail.
Others come in gently
as a feeling that settles
like perfume, driftings
from a contented moment
of love set free of time
and place, an escapee
from memory.
It can be electric.
Who we are
seems mostly hidden
in that vague region
where the aura and lint
of our lives accumulate,
too ethereal for memory
to hold captive and replay
in the now, no more than
mere notions arising
out of the nowhere
from where we come.
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