an alignment of the mind,
in a conflation of two places at a time,
wherein lies a confluence of sound and temperature,
a sense and scent that pulls you back to where
the world creaked by without event.
And where what fell into the window of your view,
however brief, was all that was happening to you.
No other truth.
Soap operas on high road theatres.
The dance of seasons as they alter.
A tumble dryer rumbling.
And then that moment passed as a moment’s wont to do.
But by that logic, there will be another soon.
A different set of circumstances,
new seasons in different dances.
An apparition once again.