Thursday, May 25, 2023

Then, Sonnet #603












Then we were what we are not,

Our only vestiges of characters

Who long ago ignored the plot.

Within the high branches of factors,

We’ve continued climbing down,

Never touching a limb we've known,

Except what swiped at our backs.

The undone things one never lacks.

Some like to remember, some forget

Intentionally: “Those I never met.”

If and then! We cannot choose which;

If we don’t unblindingly recall,

Then it just becomes a mental itch —

Then after the present’s fall.


Photograph by the author.

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