for Andrew Thomas Phillips
Artificial lucidity stares back
from the future accomplished.
Having engineered a hole
in xeroxed black and white
we peer through just like a window
pressed between the leaves of a book.
A marker used to keep track
of our progress and saved
to escape through once
the story is done.
The tome put away on a shelf in a room
of the basement of a house on the moon.
(A crease in the paper across the bridge
of the nose underlines the left eye out in
the dark half of a hypnotic magician's
divided face folded back into the heart)
You are sorely missed, and the feeling
we will never meet again intensifies
because we achieved our past
set in concrete, and memory
remains the only portal to
the future we'll ever know.
SL/C 9/10/15--Five days ago,
you would've been forty-five.
I've found you after all these years.