The world is always past
appearing in the present—
it’s as if we stop
a river with our names.
It’s Labor Day and leaves
already begin to turn
in trees with lesser makeup.
Over at Half Moon Lake,
say forty-seven years ago,
the summer of our love
is pulled in from the water
left to sit upon
the shore and slowly dry.
The school of pointless knowledge
waited for our fall.
But look! A butterfly
is playing like a crazy
leaf right now. Oh, time
is nothing of the essence
but an emptiness
divided by imagi-
nation. When this body
dies, its universe
of space and time goes with it.
But. Not. I.
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