and then he said, or did, or thought
more than he said, or did, or thought
or perhaps less than was remembered
by either him or me upon reflection

thus the endless permutations of then
and when spin like whirligigs
dazzling the kaleidoscope of now
into a frenzy of misunderstandings

he picks up what thread there is
laying here and there upon a ground
and sings a song as he sews
one piece of cloth unto another

and so I sit and long to listen
to things too hard to decipher
snatching after scraps of meaning
made manifest then disappearing