MEMOIR

when in our minds we
step back from what seems to be
going on

sometimes we think we see
patterns in our history.

we have the illusion
that, "hey,"
if we could somehow

interject

our will here or there
maybe we could author the future
rather than simply living
like passengers encased
in some unfolding
memoir.

but this thinking
like all life is
folly; we are never
stepping back
just as there is never past
or future, only...

present and presence.
we are always
here and nowhere.

and the truth is
we are not

writing our lives, nor will we
ever be given the idle opportunity
to read it from a repose;

we are more
like the typing, we are

symbols of letters
reconstructed into symbols
as words, struck to paper --

the embossed, upraised
outlines soaked in black
ink, propelled to the page

by one unseen
hand or the other, the dull flesh and
blood-filled appendages of some
illusion that imagines itself
whole, but is more like --

hole.