lxxxiv.

thunder rolls in from the east,
--shatters the night, the sage blows

down, across the slope, too late
it's too late--for most,

the stars fly and spin overhead,
I will find--voices I can barely hear

echo up from the avenue,
to the corner of the room

wheels scrape on the pavement,

the light shifts and blurs, falls gentle
on wood, dust rising above

the faded carpet--mildew leaking from
the walls--hung somewhere

I don't remember, or possibly folded now

(we sacrifice these details when we burn the past,
break it's spine on every second passing)

 the first person I ever trusted said to chase the spring

so I chase it.