The Suitcase in the Closet

[rowens]

The Suitcase in the Closet


My Past does not exist.
This does not mean that there is
no darkish labyrinth of symbols from
a world no longer extant.

Time may be a reflection forward
and backward; and I
a log of continuity not
a separate copy of each

connivance of memories,
faded and weaker like a
cassettetape with every dub.
Still, as I move forward

and stand ransom
for some forsaken crime,
composed by me or any
part: Nothing rests that reinstates,

nor from my bed do
I leave the paradise with
its reflecting pool. I dream of whom
when I awake, I die.