Lisa Zaran

When a far off wisp of smoke draws your attention

home.   And the plain head of the moon lights up your

midnight meditations.   When Sunday catches flak

from Monday for being too lackadaisical,

and the whimsy of your mood grows long as a shadow

between stars.   You leave footprints behind you.

A plague of unconscious starts and stops above,

like a cloud full of memories which punish by dropping rain.

Not unlike a symphony of barking dogs,   your past

follows you across the universe.   Today you turn toward

your neighbor and introduce yourself.

Tomorrow your signature breaks off.