The further I go, the smaller everything behind me becomes
Through the passenger seat window
A slow drive down nursery's lane
Each house replaced by a framed photograph, of a little child
I scarcely remember
A little child who strikes an uncanny resemblance, with those
Weary and sunken eyes
Timid demeanor of a single Mourning Cloak (without a tree in sight to hide in)
Stiffened stance as if glued to the porch
Shed skin of an arthropod
That is not me
It is merely an old locust masquerading
Or a young one, abandoned by our swarm
Longing to leap forward
Sometimes when I drive in reverse it becomes harder
To distinguish, between progression and regression
Up and down
Regrowth and decomposition;
Like those little neurons no one has noticed missing,
Discarded cellular garbage
Little neural networks I do not remember rewiring that way
This jumbled up composition
What am I if not my jumbled up composition
A second later, what am I
A minute later, where am I
Hours, days, months, years later
That is not me
In the driver's seat
I am an omission
The hushed vowel in "history"
Stubbornly fastened
I am a passenger
Becoming smaller and smaller in the distance
Comments