Status Updates From Self-Portrait in a Convex M...

There is a room for one bullet in the chamber:
Our looking through the wrong end
Of the telescope as you fall back at a speed
Fast than that of light to flatten ultimately
Among the features of the room, an invitation
Never mailed, the “it was all a dream”
Syndrome, though the “all” tells tersely
Enough how it wasn’t. Its existence
Was real, though troubled

How many people came and stayed a certain time,
Uttered light or dark speech that became part of you
Like light behind windblown fog and sand,
Filtered and influenced by it, until no part
Remains that is surely you.

Like the unencumbering dead. Just time to reread this
And the past slips through your fingers, wishing you were
there.