Each day is movement:
scintillation of lights
- red, yellow, green -
through a familiar world
changing in no fundamental way.
I imagine you telling the tales
like a soldier reliving glories,
tales changing with the teller
to become a better world,
to be a different one.
There is nothing that is new
only
a remembering of what was lost.
I am reminded that all journeys end
Where they begin, and that mirrors
only reverse left to right,
not upside down as well.
I imagine you lost on a street
of the city we both live in,
not seeing it as a wandering
but an aggravation, honking horns.
I imagine that the map has
become the territory, the world
stripped naked, plotted, rendered
pedestrian and boring.
There are always other suns
To wander under.
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