there's this way things slip into the past,
quicker than it feels like;
I miss old brown jeeps and something
to do all the time. these same walls,
breathing but just barely,
sleeping, waiting. you seem
forever ago but showers at one am seem
fresher than when they actually happened;
I don't know which way it is to that restaurant
anymore, and I watch people change all around me
it's this irritating feeling of feeling like I've been there,
and wanting to escape,
or wanting to live,
and I swore I heard my brakes squeal tonight right
when I passed over the same railroad tracks like always,
flickering lights and I feel there is something significant here,
though it is probably my overactive imagination
and no one to ponder with.
do you know how last week I laid in those purple flowers on my lawn
and listened to the bees buzz around my head
like I was in the center of the universe
or a highway, everything streaming past on both sides
something extraordinary but
most likely just a star in with about a billion others.
just like the ones you have to put
binoculars on to see.
didn't you lose those in your attic?