The future rolls itself out
like an old rug. Peacock feathers,
blood-red blossoms, golden fronds
lie prostrate down the middle.
The past is a moth-eaten journey
of steps and missteps. Exhausted,
the fringe bears tufts of desire,
the forlorn leavings of a too-long life.
Nights and days follow the footfall
of summers and winters hidden
in the foliage. Now, nothing
to talk about, no one to talk to
except plumes and patterns
fraught with recollection,
the worn-out wool
of a threadbare carpet.