the loneliness
of the present,
we make-believed now
and then
were one place;
here and there
blurred to pure
pattern recognition,
and all that we sought
was the shine
of one face.
But soon, we grew curious
and wandered out
in the blankness,
and everything
looked hauntingly
the same in that forest
as we tramped
our way back toward
that lost abstraction.
Now, it's the end
of another
long evening; too dark
to read the map,
and we're at our
most hollow—
so we're left
with no choice
but to pitch a new camp
at this blip between
tomorrow and a past
we can't correct.
