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Round Time
- Wesleyan University Press
- Chapter
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Round Time Looking back, I look too straight: I can't locate my old self, I mean young self, you know who. My one-and-only, be-all-end-all, my intended and my ex, the one I was most smitten with. No matter in how many shots and tones and letters she was caught, recorded, dated, lovingly held still or held important, now behind the frozen frame she stays essentially unrememberable—not to be surrounded, comprehended—even in time, or especially in time. And if I try to ride the wave without desire for destination, just remembering remembering's design—the feedback slaps me silly, still, with multiples of ism, replicas of ness—a busy copy center, Lake Success, with mirrors posed for turns, returns, diminishing . . . We are what we are looking for: a sign. My fingers cannot tell themselves from the electric typewriter. The room rises and falls in mind, the bay beyond the window has its day, whose islands are the islands of attention. What exists is mostly lost on us, and this 211 despite our best intentions, fastest memories. As quickly as this cat leaps up upon the desk to settle on the manuscript—a curve will overcome the line. 212 ...