when the pictures came back
the last three i had taken in my dream
were all overlaid with the same
of a backyard in the nineteen thirties,
wih the foreground subjects all differing:
me on a field trip poking washed up jellyfish with a lacquered chopstick
me in a burning restaurant just as an owl snatches the white rabbit out of my arms
me tying three bells to a cat's collar so as to warn birds of its whereabouts
all clarified with the soft muddiness
of moments safely past any chance of correcting.
is this not nostalgia:
to live in the gone moment at last?
[i found this image [found on ffffound] very compelling, and so used it as a visual kind of scaffold for a poetic state.]