“Flying carpet” might be more apt,
Fleeing, unreachable, rapt.
Not magical, but uncanny,
Not even real, epiphany
Without a point because it is
Not up to analysis.
We’re given only a number —
How many can’t be counted, known —
(Fraying threads, fabric unsewn).
“I’m certain that I remember,”
I say. The carpet flaps. I fall.
Can I recall one thing at all?
The memories that I most fear
Are those I hope to lose next year.
My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here: My Human Disguise.
