Sorry, Mr Yeats


by Mike Essig


The past tense forever

present. Where we live,

now, then, and when.


The frozen debris of time,

shards, fragments, pieces:

jagged surface of an ice moon.


When does the past become past?


The present past so fast.

Something that suddenly stopped

leaving fewer possible beginnings

than malleable remembered endings.


Imbricated layers of then

overlapping even the future;

a play never to be canceled.


The rotten, brown dapple

of February’s relentless rain

on rotted leaves, pelting

green shoots that struggle up

seeking only their deaths.


So many former imaginings

twirl, change and prance:


No end and no beginning.


Never a dancer.

Forever the dance.






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