When the past greets you
And it greets you often,
You fail at response,
Some bundle called a face,
Some tide of waves called a voice,
Expects you to know,
To recognize these contours,
It is polite to do so,
But the past expects too much.
The past knows dimensions
And tricks with directions,
One calls out to be recalled
From the early grave of your mind,
And then another figure approaches,
Comes out for a dance
And cries for you to fill the music.
Certain combinations of eyes, lips,
Ears, and personal syntaxes
You hope to see again, a surprise
Coming from behind after rustling
In the snow topped bushes,
But that past, the past you love
To come and hurt you once more,
Arrives at twilight, if at all.
It is like the present, one splinter
Of time that travels express,
Never stopping to greet,
Not even slowing down to be seen,
The present tortures with a blur,
It makes you mind the swirl
Instead of the gaps inside you.