[wpaudio url=”/audio/march13/Langford.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]
Soaking in salt. Bi-carb of dried tears
Get back without looking back. Too many traces. Shapes. Crystalline. See where it goes. Tracks running forward.
Non-committal. At this juncture. White washed figure on asphalt. Washed under carpet
On prior assault. It’s a demure demise. How easy it must be, to reinvent. Present as pristine. Marked and soiled. Not that you’d know. Slip a gear. Oiled. Surprising how trusting.
Add subtitles. It’s a new foreign front. Begin without end. A lost sequel remake, the reels were once files. Who you knew is no different.
Squandered what could be, based on prior opportunities. No need to reflect. Mirror image presents same. As though it could be anything else.
While tomorrow is not another day, it is tomorrow, it is encumbered with weights of yesterdays. Dragging us behind, to where we hoped we never were.
Cold. Distant. As the years should be.
End of hopscotch, turn and jump back. Same squares. Different direction.