The Detour

Like a child losing eye-spy something beginning with a... perhaps... No... No ! i lie... that thing with a 'P' - the past... it's not at all dark and distant dreaming they just change the target - it's not what its seeming, "Look... look - they got me / they shot me." Last year, right now or in the morning - all the time, just a different space, like a three-in-one place. Eye-spy the holy trinitye, exactly so the white-clad father begot the bloody son, who, once spent and done released his light spirit as surely as black night ejected illuminating day, for the past to birth a brilliant, busy present to slow-breathe a still-misted future. And we, humbled in the mud, badly believing the impossibility of sameness (thrilling and cheating at the eye-spy gameness) shout : "Look... look... this time it's different !" No... No ! we lie... that thing with a 'P' - you name it with your mouth, i'll call it to your ear all the way down the remembered shadows of every bristled, notched, forgotten year. We end where we begin, on our backs staring up at yesterday's shining light, and, as we slowly lose our sight, lose the final eye-spy game, like memories in a tarnished frame, motives, movements, moments stride purposely 'round. Still we talk without sound, where we walk without friends and cry our love away. Lives lost to time filled with detours.