It was never much but once
I’d show up here and there
every now and then, people
were the places that they brought
along, awkward sun glasses and
a photo postcard, draped in blossoms
before some temple, grinning bright
before the snow. That was before
phones were cameras and
there were a lot of other
things to look at, staring up
through the towering redwoods
at some hinted constellation or
gazing out across the reckless sea
the sun long ago run aground.
Now the loop of ritual and incidence
erase me every day, the words
unwound as the stylus bewitches
the wax, someone speaking
so close it might’ve been to me.