Don't look back
Behind your head all the things that you missed
congealed, washed away,
also stuck mainly in the bulbousness of your neck
like things blocked, reluctantly absorbed,
a tree trunk so heavy and mute
and so porous and so dumb.
When you thought you were facing forward
you were not facing anywhere really,
hardly like an eye floating in space
pan-visual, where the eye is the eye.
Imagine the world is the eye then, and you are the spectacle;
It sees all, coterminously.
Behind your head, a pillow, the
headboard, the head-rest on the plane,
as if behind is where it all ended for good
and that was the end of it.
Where you started then is
only a side view if you want it,
if you make the effort.
But then the obliviousness just revolves a little
and that’s as far as you take it,
and you walk away from where you’ve just been
instead of the place that you’re going.