Now circular toward my end. You'd think
linear, since a circle goes nowhere, but does a line?
Reduced to simplicity, retarded, not knowing,
not associating, reading excerpts about
a time I could have sworn I'd lived through, but I'm not
mentioned once, not as if I were passed over
but never were. Ready at last, perhaps,
but time has contracted, burdened me, so I think
in events not years, work the small units
intensely, every color an emotion, a thought,
like restoring an old watch, each jewel,
each spring, doing what I've done for so
long, sustaining the perfection of an igloo when commerce
has plasticized ice and paneled its walls with ads.