Joshua Keiter

Transformation not only 
occurs as singular 

events bring about 
unexpected change 

in happening and in 
thinking about being 

one day we were one 
and the next another 

fire a result of breathing 
language breaking 

into constituent parts 
the shapes of mouths 

for all we know recognizable 
and known recognized 

for these words our deeds 
acts described as love

Not much of a stretch 
to see the yellow carcasses 
strewn on the pavement 
and imagine an infestation 
approximating the end 
of the world or a fifties 
sci-fi movie about insects 
reaching gargantuan proportions 
and instigating apocalypse 
of humans sad own doing 
for not realizing they were 
just bugs getting busy and 
getting dying in the span of 
maybe twenty four hours 
not much of a life but 
what a way to go obviously 
we have known about 
these creatures for seventeen 
times seventeen years 
who first collected them? 
who compared their life cycles 
to their own? who measured 
how first appearances become 
teenaged? like bad deja vu 
everything compared to its 
younger larval self sucking 
sap from tree roots deep 
in the ground would that 
our rebirth were so evident 
as branches collecting spirit 
we stick to on the way down

Let it be known 
henceforth 
that on this day 
the cat with the appellation 
of Patches 
approached with paws clenched 
and torso elongated 
the bird in the birdbath 
and nearly disturbed 
the bird’s concentration 
on imbibing liquid 
such that the bird 
retired to the nearest fence 
to taunt said feline with 
unearned side eyes 
and prideful prancing 
before fluttering away satisfied 
Patches proceeded to sit 
in the grass 
paws folded 
momentarily triumphant 
as evidence the bird 
has not as of yet 
returned to the bath

Ennui of middle age 
lost to mid twenties me 
as music playing 
after waking from a nap 
having missed half the album 
only to catch the triumphant 
chorus in the extended coda 
ready to drop the needle 
back at the start 
for another go around 
now that twenty years 
or so have passed by 
lugubrious passages 
leaving a sort of sense 
as the start of something fresh 
in the wanderlust aftermath 
I wanted to make it all okay

Yesterday on the path 
through the woods 
there was a lone guitarist 
walking in our direction 
playing to himself 
or no one in particular 
what became apparent 
as we approached was
Wish You Were Here 
a song by Pink Floyd
I might have learned  
in a college dorm room 
over twenty years ago
I made out the chords 
as we passed the guitarist 
he may have been missing 
someone he lost 
this long year plus 
has been a succession 
of not playing guitar 
all alone in the woods 
as others pass by 
identifying the song 
with their eyes ignoring 
the music in front of them 
as a courtesy to those 
moving aside on the path 
discovering there is 
suddenly no room to move

A sense the fog is breaking 
accompanied by brightest sun 
weather the month of May was made for 

no idea when these memories 
will disappear from return 
to temporary useful consciousness 

that they cannot remember 
the last time they were remembered 
is corroborated by their silence 

in the face of having not been forgotten 
only hiding in some semi-permanent synapse 
made futile by ascending to surface 

this feeling of wholeness unnecessary
to daily functioning yet solace 
in this imprinting even gray matter 

made luminous by transparent sun 
a moment’s unexpected reflection 
eyes looking at themselves again 

belonging

Possible world restored 
in this begin garden

where seeds have end 
amid tendons 

circles spin glad 
remind premonition 

faces memory smile 
lost return energy

Places outlive us 
even when we visit them 
pre-posthumously 

they possess their essence 
even though inhabited 
heretofore by hordes 

unknown in our lifetimes 
for that brief span 
we call bodies our home 

just passing through 
peak moments all around 
one sacred space followed 

by another in succession 
only familiar because 
they have been here before 

only restless because spirit 
roams freely settling 
at last in this space 

you can see the center 
from everywhere

Not sure what to make 
of these anniversaries 

that keep accumulating 
through no fault of their own 

static moments getting static-er
tending to brief staccatos 

of motion in the brain 
here in the light memory 

stays different all the same 
eventually you become the picture 

and staring back into the square
means there is less and more 

to retrieve by random access 
which is the only way anything 

makes sense anymore back then 
you were a blur and before 

you knew it you were gone 
at least there are these pictures 

given enough time become world 
only left what those eyes saw