There are dates rigged like
       timebombs, just below
             the skin:

birthdays, anniversaries, deaths,
    times to rejoice, times to lie terrified
          in some mucky foxhole of memory.
Or perhaps these are the cairns of a
      lifetime, pointing to events long
           forgotten, piled high on the lost trails of
                fog-bound peaks, where missteps
                      are not forgiven.

The year turns. The clocks are set:
       January, June, a relentless ticking,
           until a  date arrives which is never quite
                  Armistice Day. Then the explosion, the dirt
                       flies, and we are blown fast
                             forward into the past.

May 1990

All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
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