All manner of imprecisions
among my daily sloppishness,
another line erased;
scantlings brushed away.
I’m never quite sure
if what I thought happened,
or if I rewrote enough
the palimpsest’s vanished.
Causation was no more
than a butterfly landing
briefly upon her book
as I fell into her eyes.
Even now as I write,
the strands dissipate
loosening my hold
on the storyline:
if anything bloomed
it faded beneath
my vague meanderings
and memory’s dust.
(December 8, 2014)
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