Bent and Beat

in a roadside antique shop

off of oregon highway 97

as if all of the things of our past having separated and long gone their separate ways

escaped from memory

flow through the world, writing their own silent object biographies

then, no longer able to endure the diaspora,they regather,

all of these ex patriot recollections of my youngest years,

(and your oldest)

i stumble blindly upon them on a dry blazing grey beard stubble tuesday

and my head swoons and stomach drops with things like deja vu and dreams and false interpretations of the world

memories that drown me, push me under the water of long acres

and other since dead places

outside the air does not console me

a shadow like familiarity of the unknown is a disconcerting dream in the broad desert daylight