Sure, one more. Time for one last one.
Or the first last one, at any rate.
Hovering there above and just behind—
which shoulder was it?
— reflected in the back-bar mirror
(which no longer exists) stood—
more like floated—that ever present
wraith— tho not always seen— every
yet unaccounted for, an unprodded
memory, more a lurking, a sense of a
something wafts just out of memory’s
reach, an inkling of a thing just around
the corner.
Here. Come, bring that thing along with you.
It will, or no. To struggle against it is
only to prolong the inevitable.
That Other. Wholly unknowable.
The not-other as well as might as be.
poetastrophy 