Past memory,
the syncopated strut
is a gig,
or a mindset,
or a place I thought was me,
but wasn't.
Past sympathy,
the perforated face
shows a lie;
an allusion
to Prometheus' need
forgotten.
We strive for a salve,
greasing our body,
slipping
past memory,
past sympathy.
But from Tribeca to home,
with the rotting fish
and foot-soiled tomatoes,
I once had a vision.
A vision that this will never be.
A lament that it is.
And a vow
it will never be again.