phantom leaves
on a dead-
to-the-world old
elm tree in February,
so you, too
reshuffle reams
of dull memories
to which you still cling, though
you never seemed
to live-through.
You see obscure eternities
meandering forever,
while recalling
with clarity, that it all started
somewhere.
Just for now, all your fear
can be turned
inside-out
to resemble
what you'd called, in your
foolish youth, "wonder,"
while the confusion,
which looms in the darkness
at its center
both attracts and
consumes you—
like a massive
black hole in the middle
of the universe
and a huge, heavy whetstone
which your strength
will not move—even as
you somehow use it
to sharpen-up
your truth.
