Perhaps
the past
is a strike-anywhere
matchstick
crammed inside its
stiff little box.
And
the future is
pure sandpaper—
or the grainy
brick mortar
just waiting
to annihilate it.
And you—you're
the addict,
with his sulfur-
tinged nostrils and
nicotine fingers
who delights
at how quick
and how hot
and spectacularly
the two come together
to engender
the fire
which you jones
to take hold of
and hold deep
inside you
before setting
loose to get
lost in the world—
every time
anything
happens
at all.
