Lo these bygones,

they creep back into all moments.

They are of the same moment,

once again.

In the honor of memory,

it is what is said to me,

again and again.

For what I use to register this frame

somehow includes

each previous moment’s rehearsals.

So as from before,

a match in sequence,

possibly with refinement’s sum,

internal but in place,

that sees this moment

by its repetition of frame,

although cynical or refining

is from then to now.

This is so to every then,

I suppose.

Layered upon layering

is a composite from then.

It is, as remembered,

towards what now could have been

if freely embraced.

Is but now,

only comparatively so,

and holding?

Is anything outside this syntax

of unconscious method

oh so precious

and yet not to be embraced?

Is it as if possession

were to be of value gained

but a fresh face

from outside this self-intimacy

is so very lost

without containment’s approval?

It is a prisoner

of under representation

since it is not tied

to a distant redeeming past

that sanctions or denies?

Does it then

thus slip through the current fingers

of now’s attention,

lost in a moment’s touch

but vacant of binding’s attachment?

Lo these bygones,

with their rules

and the leaps and bounds,

the free falls and a ha’s

that come up,

against their rules . . .