I remember muscular youth,
flexing muscle, slinging sweat.
Running for miles. Hitting the
football sled, forgetting plays.
I remember fireflies in jars
on summer night with my sister
and mother. Was it 40 years ago?
How little to be seen in the light.
How much to shown later.
The destiny remote has fast-forwarded
and still trying to map the path.
A dear friend says put the pin anyplace
and you’re there.
A cosmic clock is out there,
it never stops.
Others will take our places.
Sheds will be emptied, archives tossed,
poems burned, memorbilia dumped.
One can ask: Am I on time?
At this moment, is this, now, where
I am supposed to be, or
worse, might have been, should have
been, or was asleep at the wheel,
too fried to scramble, too weary to
hustle, or practicing refined indifference
awaiting the definitive shout of destiny:
YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE HERE. NOW.
Push and pull, holding out, holding the
breath, blind to signs, scanning
horizon lines, humming in the ears,
like crickets in perpetual woo
as the treeline is torched in a frenzy of
bright heat, as the pitch of the cicadas
becomes the rustling roar of armies
and clouds rush in accelerated motion
day-night, like some Koyanisquatsi
canyon dreams, ghost dance, the kabuki farce
as once the muscular tranfixes cereberal,
and just once, a troubled gasp for serenity
as star become fireflies.