A new poem. They said it couldn't be done!
"Incoming"
The sound-bullet labyrinths
its way into my head. All
the past remembered as well
as it was previously forgotten.
That heavy, candy-sticky 1998 feeling,
when I was unsure of the map of
the map I was tracing into the road
that kept churning itself to mud
under the wheels. It made little
sense then, even less now,
though I seem to understand something
new about that map of a map,
and this new map of a map of a map
of now (then, whatever and whenever)
that we are creating together,
certain and unsure, and absolutely,
absolutely yes.
