Where the Dreams Were Growing Wild
5 February 2011

Perhaps this has all occurred before, albeit in a different location, with a different set of participants, at a different time. A newspaper photo. A shot from a film burnt into memory. A strange kind of recognition, not unlike the memory of a man being shot on the pier at Orly.

Something else had changed irrevocably

Time builds itself painlessly around them

At times something happens and I stop dreaming

A fleeting glimpse struck a haunting chord

It turned to the past or to the future

The fog has lifted

This morning I awoke twisted, but relaxed

Nobody else would ever learn