Spring

(A) Version

13 (A)Version Of all our selves, what if we could choose among or had to suffer some to surface full-blown to the present, revived from the burial of years, as if a fresco’s under-drawing rose rust-red through paint, and visible, this blueprint of a current scene, a being— Or like nesting dolls, unscrew our torsos to exhume a younger self, a hatching treacherous by chance, for perhaps some ancient Vesuvius unearthed to scald, or some unrecognizable, larval stage appear, some wide-eyed thing soaking in its equivalent in glass, mistaking one split self for another, oh possible comrade of the years, witness to unspoken anecdotes and anguish. Must we endure confessions from such molding mouths, parade of variations, garish apparitions—or can I know you again, lynx-eyed oracle; will you speak to me, strange beast, beginning, beaten thing in the language, in the constellation of languages I’ve forgotten? ...