The wind recalculates the trees.Their thin hands—adjusting.This is not the same world as yesterday.Do you remember the angle of light at 4:12 p.m.?Did you write it down?
The map in your pocket still believesin the roads it was given.Your feet, though,have begun to doubt.
You want to trust the body—its grid of hunger, its seismic murmurs—but it, too, revises.A sparrow lifts and is not the same sparrowby the time it lands.
You reach for something fixed,but even your name tiltslike a glass on the edge of a table.
Wait—wasn’t it full a moment ago?