Memory and Imagination are One
details, like mosaics, decades old
around eleven, the adrenaline slow
fall from my red Christmas bike,
ripping skin on loose gravel,
catching the pain across my palms
facts of a sort
followed by conjecture
the sky was winter grey—
I was heading home (from where)
hurriedly (was I late, for what
or just the thrill of speed
or both— fear and joy dancing
together like flames)
perhaps, perhaps
what-ifs’ multitudes unravel
with time and causal doubts
as perhaps twist and spin into now’s
singular, tight, and irretrievable knot
I tell myself I know and knew
the bits of broken glass cohere
but I don’t anymore than I did
I fell, I bled, I must
have made it home
for I am here
(July 20, 2026)
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