by Bruce Boston
Attenuated images come back
in the short hours of night
drifting in and out of sleep,
fragments of conversation
torn from a transformed past,
forsaken visions revisited.
In cafes of decanted history
the clientele and fare
change by the minute.
In the switchback turns
of yesterday’s streets
the light flickers
with broken images
from a projector
cranked by hand.
The wave of the present
intrudes on the past
like a master thief
stealing bits and pieces
of time and remembrance
from a limited cache.
The wave of the past
invades the present
like a cat burglar
clawing up the trellis,
clinging to vines,
leaping to a window,
creeping across the floor,
pouring through drawers
in the depths of dreams,
skulking in bedroom shadows,
just where you are
sure to find it.
Appeared in Bete Noire