Coming through

 

Coming through I’m never sure
Of where I’ve been or if I’ve been
There never sure of what it was
I thought or heard or saw.
It is reality of a sort
As far as I can tell but
Precisely what I never know.

Is everything encompassed now
Or if not when?  Do my thoughts
Impose these words or do these words
Constrain my thoughts? I’ve struck
The now against the long ago and
Within that frisson found 
An image being chipped.

When the concrete’s dry
I’ll walk out, finding
The sun glancing from
My weak eyes to where I’ve been.
I’ll bend down perhaps and grab
A tiny stone, a token of there
And of a brief being here.