I know I wrote these, but
I can’t recognize myself in these words.
I struggle, grasping for patterns I’m not sure are there.
This is my handwriting, but it suddenly seems
I don’t really know my own mind,
thoughts galloping wildly in different directions,
scattered like newly sheared sheep, their fleecy past
discarded in heavy piles and bags by the door.
From where I stand,
in the murky, shifting light of the barn,
I catch the repetitive thump of hooves racing across the field as they try to
distance themselves from their loss.
I’m eating ice cream,
a reward for a job well done,
and the creamy sweetness feels out of place here,
like the appearance of a past lover out of nowhere in a dream,
a remnant of some other life suddenly thrown into sharp focus,
meaning swirling in and out of view,
like wisps of fleece around the dusty barn floor.