Towards the end,
you grow dispersed in footprints of moss
deeper under the cedars
in a light so ambiguous
you’re not sure whether
it is dawn or dusk.

Where does the trail lead
back into vanished places?
You hold them in your hands,
o mighty pyramids,
and the lumps of sugar
for lost fauns, on the precious page nos.

Do you remember?
How the path popped and
fizzed with heartbeats,
and the tickets for the sleeper
melted down the stars to mist?

If you look, you think,
it might grow again
with scents of fresh bitumen
nigrescently pouring
on the first
warm day of spring.

It is not you,
although without you
it would not exist,
the strand of catkins,
ether on ether,
the voices in a crowd,
each one a beginning.

Upon its length,
others are threading their lives,
moment by moment
as your reflection
fades from the river
and on the night current
the moored boats swing.