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.