Like I’m old, looking back… (Mama put my guns…) In the background, from some old stereo. I lean backward. On the ceiling, in a ring of film shots, the episodes of what’s happened, of what will have happened, imaginatively, by a certain point in the future when, like I’m old, I’m looking back (windshield wiperson the way to New…) Driving. Driving on, through, and past, you on the other seat, sunny, a fact then, when I’m looking back. (As I remember your eyes were…) the white of the ceiling – white doesn’t exist – reflects all the colors from the shots as in the covers of magazines about our life, diva-like poses auctioned off into simple abodes, looking back, like I’m old… (“Songs for you” – the cd still works!) People stunned that we’re still here and wondering, us, if there’s a meaning in having lived long and succeeded in getting old.

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