Past Past

Past the clinks of the metal bat, the high school boys running bases—fielding something, past the flirty girl in pink, still. Past the fat mother and her baby on her lap, swinging together, stretching the strip of rubber suspended by chains. Past the river that’s lost it’s sway, bent straight by men and edged with concrete, broken concrete. Past the curiosity of the concrete, past the young man smiling at his woman, her lids half lowered. Past her face, smooth as a nickel. Past sheets and skin and the jelly roll. Past the usual line of five o’clock cars snagging the walking-bridge joy. Past the White River. Past loneliness and lolling on a log by the river, past eyeing a knob. Smooth, beneath the fallen tree. A shell or a snail. Past leaning forward for it’s touch, the bump’s touch, the unexpected polish. Past not caring. Past dying—not past here. In thoughts and ant hills. Feeling spring in the nose, the weariness of bones. Half in dreams. Half in memory. Wondering what it means. How to get it back.