I picture it as if a person
put down the green thread they carry—
thread of remembering
the long journey of the past
names of places and objects—
(is it cologne? Is it deodorant?
It is that thing you spray
to change how the world smells—)
Once dropped, the thread
tangles itself around impatience
frustration of lost moments
gets trampled in the grass
whole sections break off certain years,
long connections between
people go missing or must be improvised—
a substitute name here, a decade there
until —
Who knows? But for now it is knotted
covered in mud and so hard to picture it
bright green and flowing
Puff Of Smoke Poems 