The past has us passed out in attic rooms six to a futon bed,
eyes heavy after sucking smoke from lawn ornaments—
or younger sun kissed in a coastal cottage waiting for the clang
of brass handles your uncle’s ghost was said to pluck like harp strings.
Later in the log cabin we discovered a minister’s robe
& danced until blasphemy became buoyant like belly laughs—
or later still in a moment yet to come in which we float
to a riverbed loft lined with moon jellies & glassworks
from our hometown.
What is it called this thing between living & luster
standing present inside moments passed & others
yet to come—