It’s like waking from a strange dream
in a strange place, wearing nothing
you ever wore before— how you know
there’s a story whether the world
worked it out, this built in
repetition backwards to ignition,
the mirror therefore it’s me.
No phone, no ID, this sense
that the three-second delay stalls
the signal to the senses, your name
a where, a when, a reasoned reckoning.
Now here comes the marked-up map,
the dots on the decision tree,
the presupposed path you spoke aloud.
The crown of stars,
the roots through the rocks—
there you are here we go.
The dogs charge rings around the yard,
flies taste at scratched skin and raw knees,
the radiance of the dusk
another retelling for the recollection.
Oh, the world knows its part
gifting this hollowed here,
scattering labels and receipts.