I It's me. There's no mistake, I recognise the failing walk, the twisted fingers, curling in plain sight, just across the way. I've been here a while waiting in line with visions of lines to come, people I might be, bones and pains that could be mine. I clench my fists, because I can. II I am tapped on the shoulder, and asked directions: "Which way to where you are now?" - Of course, of course I remember the branches taken and choices made, of course I do - - or not, when the question's really asked III Slip away, in jarring time and ghosted recollections: the desire to remember pushes and pulls us, a tide of bitter fragments, rolling below the foam and sky. Walk further, beating the bounds of the estate, the holding and letting go of things too close, too dear. Too high a price paid for earth, is earth's reward. Sleep now, as sleep becomes you: transformations made in mind return to haunt the fool, the judge - whose sentence remains to stay and be still, be still. IV The fresh day, and inside, a new word is discovered: the new unfolds, blossoms, fades. The path, strewn with storm whispers into the distance, and another winter, for sure, lies at the end.