On the last day,

after all, it’s not been

too monotonous

or momentous either.

You stare out from a

window that isn’t

what it seems.

Nor can you be seen.

You finally got

that reality is

invisible

infinite

essimal.

All you did get, after all,

was to stare awhile and swim like a demon.

Reality transforms from warm to cold,

wet to dry, then rhythm to

cacophony.

Birth and death aren’t gradual,

after all.

Memories

In early April, cruel showers

turn and splash and fade,

without a plan or auto-cue

or credits rolling at the end.

No sleep is possible in this wind

- memories of camping rain

spatter and splatter and splat again

my rooftop tingling brain.

Memories! A tent flapping,

ghosts insistent for remembering

- calling but uncalled for.

Almost, they breathe, look,

aching for texture

as wind and rain let up.