HIghlights of 201X

 

It really is a different country. The past

Has its own currency; even the language

 

Though stemming from the same root, holds

Its dialect. See the way that I

 

So many years ago – what, only a few? –

Looked straight at us, a glance to speak through years;

 

Held the wineglass, gesturing a pose

Not unlike semaphore, beckoning – for what

 

I cannot now say. That face, so smooth, as if

Vaselined – though we know that it was not,

 

It was taken on a phone – and yet to me

It’s an uncanny thing. How could we

 

Have known, even then, that posterity would win,

Frame us, encrypt our images, so that I

 

Implore from a great distance, to anyone,

Anyone at all: please, don’t leave me here.

 

 

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