At the dried up lake bed
from the end of prehistory
you stand looking across the flat.
You can’t believe what you see
is former as it feels like an overflow
of now. Look at that, you say
to a companion no one else can see.
That’s where we are headed,
into a flood of memory
that neither dries up nor cries out.
That is right, the Other says.
No one but us can see it, of course.
They call us mad for thinking
we can swim across. We won’t be,
of course; how could we?
How we get to the other side
isn’t for us to choose but we
must get there.
We drift into the space
hoping not to drown.
We drift out over the ghosts
who fill the ancient lake.
On the other side, a small banner:
“Here Is The Start Of History.”
We can renew and refresh there,
you say. Do it right this time.
That’s what they all say,
says the Other.