we are dead men again
back from secondment to the living
resuscitated by clerical error
only to be unborn
like an
upsy-daisy brush fire
reverted back to dull smoke and wet logs
like an anti-clockwise Phoenix
like a reverse mortgage
we are dead men again
left over, and
left behind men
like
a calico swirl of leaf litter on asphalt
ran-over, tired men
worn down rubber men
trying to erase the past — but
stuck:
re-running around
the same seasons —
the same lights,
the
same camera,
the same action
stuck: re-winding back again
the same spoiled ending
we are dead men again
stuck on repeat men
as if the entire
historical record
were burnt onto a scratched
bootleg CD
stuck
like a rainbow inside an oil slick pool
with no start
and no end
and no direction for a future —
real or imagined —
pot of gold
stuck
navel-gazing
like the painter who realizes
every
still life will perish too
no different than the bowl of oranges
gently yielding their form to an eclipse
of powder green
mold
stuck
like a puzzle piece forced into play
with the right
look
but in the wrong place
at the wrong time
always
taking the mulligan, again, and again
but still stuck
unable to
match the picture on the box
unable to solve the boundary crux
unable to find the final fit
not now
not quickly
not at
all