The rivers
only run
backwards
in our dreams,
fantasies,
and memories.

We can
only go back there
when we think
and remember,
no sparks
or embers
can relight
December’s
fire that has died.

A corpse is just
potential dust
but in the end
we all go that way.

The road may bend,
curve out and in
but the traffic
won’t let us
drive back
to the exact
same place and time again.

When you read this
if you do,
once or twice
or more times
if you like,
I will not be
the same me
I am while I am
writing,
and tomorrow
you will be
different to.