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.

Number

The number of dates

Ever proliferates.

Each, pinned down, waits

Until all are done —

One and one and one.

We wake and sleep and wake

Without the slightest break

In the dropped mirror

Of each memory’s error.

I remember tomorrow,

Waves of it, row on row,

Just within my reach

On this particulate beach

That myriad suns bleach.