that you
are someone—
front
and center, bright
eyes shining;
then, you learn that you
are not—you run
together, wander off;
last, you learn
it was never
about you—all depth
collapses,
and the plot
strands clot;
the divinely un-
divided scoffs
at what went rhyming
with "auspicious"
in the sticks—those
trite seconds
and gauche minutes—
the conceit
was just a matter,
not
of time, but
of timing.
