The circle is the cycle is not the point

magic moments seem to be encapsulated by parentheses
suggestions of sepia flashes of light
things ablaze and angled

knowing memory makes things glow
and bend and take on
odd shapes

but memory is not
reality

and I dreamed of a woman lost
a woman gained a boy who
seemed happy and a man
unhinged

and except for this persistent unhappiness
it's
all

missing

wobbling
towards the infinite future

away
from an emaciated past