Tap the key with the little finger
and it takes you back
though not like a fountain of youth,
not like a time machine,
not even like memory.
At the edge of your previous thought
the cursor insists that going forward
is only marginally related
to going back.
The person you fell in love with
before learning what love was,
the last words you spoke to your father --
it’s all related, the line above
necessary to get you to the place
where you wait for the next one.
Return.
Start again.
But not with her,
not with your father,
not with the idea you had any idea
of where you would end up.
1 comments:
Happy Thanksgiving David,
love this poem--return. indeed. Many happy ...
the title, for one, is genius a stroke of.
and the going to the lover, the father, also wonderful keys to the poem.
and the not knowing, that is the best way to sit down to the keyboard all and all, brilliantm the whole poem ... how the title leads us in, how the last line ends without ending. very nice.
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