The past was yesterday . . .

No more,

No less.

Days and dates

Are the fictions

Of convenience.

Somehow, the decades

Compress into a kernel

Of present comprehension,

A vivid vortex

Of perception . . .

I float,

Adrift in the moments

Of myself

Allowing maelstroms of the mind

To catapult me

Into tributaries and harbors

Serving as secluded sanctuaries

Of the soul.