Afterimage

Kinematoscope horizons stack
And flare

silver rain
spending itself
in rivulets

over
discovered edges
of grown-over paths.

Gray light
pours over green leaves like
taconite spilled
from a ruined hull.

The world
carries
old pocket-weight
to you —

these things
your hands have lost —

gathered
from shoulders
of roads
that you have dreamed,
whose miles
your feet cannot recall.

They pour like
water through your fingers
and pool
upon the floor.

A roaring
flicker slows
along a treeline,
and stills
in the house where you live.

A silhouette resolves
in the interlude.

Sunlight
bleeds around it.

You remember this:
turning over
drawers,
pushing artifacts
and talismans
up around its corners
to define it.

The way you
once stirred embers
under green leaves
in the silver rain,
beneath gray light.