Without a place
no memory breathes-
winding itself beyond sight
buried in sometime synapses
irretrievable without ground
years rise in vapor trails
dissipate into horsetail clouds
burned away in today’s streaming sun.
A loose necklace of swirled beads
lies twined through my left hand-
some shine and sing sweet harmonics
while most rumble dry and dark
leaving blisters between my fingers-
I fumble skilllessly to count them
to make sense of them but always fail
as they break apart and roll into dark places.
Memory longs for itself in dreams
driven and shaped by nothing I can name-
no origin sings shining faraway hymns
to guide a hiraeth of plaintive vision
of pointed longing for a far gone home-
only the spinning Now breathes and beats
itself turning to smoke in the present closing
of the day as it darkens and swells into night.
This simply and this only is true
when no first place anchors Now to Then-
winding down to rest for another night
whether peaceful or full of electricity
closing eyes and waiting for the shapeless dreams-
whether judging the day lived with kindness
or regretting the day lived too small
only hope for better and counting of breaths remain.