Kaleidoscope

You think—

if only my life was

replete with incident

like a novel, but then you

twist the kaleidoscope of

memory and all sorts of

events tumble out that

prickle your skin with

shame or flush you with

embarrassment or

stiffen or moisten you, but

they’re all just pieces of

coloured time and maybe

you can rearrange them into a

book, or pare them like a

bone or a pencil into a

poem, or perhaps you would

prefer one last twist to find a

better pattern or

smash it and sweep the

whole damned mess of

shards into the

oubliette of forgotten.

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