subtext

Memory’s fickle nature turns

all nuance into fragments.

I hold the trembled bits

between my fingertips,

as if I could discern

one moment from the next;

separating fine gradations

like diamond dealers sweeping

stones one pile to the next

with an easy dexterity. I shudder,

like an old bull to the yoke,

beneath the variables framing

all the doors within doors,

until the still life’s vanishing

point collapses into one

I must be for my time left.