there is something you should do,
if you could
remember, but

history is bipolar,
each moment splits in two

rifts, opening
skylights in hallways

days go into days, go
into years
and still nothing.
Nothing in the daisy fields,
nothing in the fields,


white hills vanishing
behind clouds

us, here
on the side of the road

and the wind whines
through the tussock grass

and cars drive past,
bright lights speeding through darkness