Peripatetic

Peripatetic
Time was only a matter of itself,
flailing around like a goose—
Spread out just as often
as it was compacted
into a point no larger
than a ball of yarn;
and we went through life
like that, thinking it ordinary

how a single line could coil
around itself like a snake
suffocating prey,

how as we age
our knees don’t feel the weight
of our accumulating memories.

Once, while unraveling,
I was shown a simple truth:
No matter how many times
I packed my things
and moved,

in my dreams

(our lines, refurling,
woven into blankets—
time, its feathers
stuffed into our mattress—
weightless with the whole
of history beneath us)

I am always just returning.