by Keith Moul
Some time passes that, to the mind,
is void of all events; and whether
I intended to wait ten years or not, I did.
But now I understand that millions born
have shaped their minds in the interim. My mind
has been re-shaped in the interim,
a time/space world for which no one
assumes full responsibility, in which no one
explains such deep attention to the vague,
from which no one returns
with both hands and mind full.
I do not care how I now affect these new minds,
but how they can possibly keep my pace,
how they will unlearn so little and learn so much,
how they will deal with their own lapses
without defaulting to intransigence.
You may be thinking
that I describe a yellow dream.
Or, perhaps, you think, I have read a bad book and cynically
seek to deceive any to whom such books appeal. Or, have I
finally withdrawn from too many poor decisions
or chosen to forget?
I am fortunate to have my hands full,
back from the Gulag, back from the Cave of the Winds,
back from wandering among the lost tribes,
back to reclaim conscience, and baseball,
back to tremble with the sensors in the mountains,
back just in time for Valentine’s Day.