Nostalgic for the present-time.
Strangely, this very moment,
washed-out color,
light and dark, blare and eclipse
beyond recognition,
symptomatic of neglect.
It is a remnant self
in remnant surroundings,
the rest having taken flight
or succumbed to the tug
and allure of place-names
that seem greater than my own,
or to the tectonic grind
between agoraphobic spaces
and claustrophobic confines.
Retrieve the scatter, call it home.
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