These Lengths of Our Days

These long days strung upon such a short string, dreams all, dreams collected as a thread of life. These nights that arrive like blackboards - and all smudged with chalk. Do you wake and feel as if all that has gone before was not even once and is no more? A can of condensed soup, a Warhol image we took down from a self-shelf and opened, the ingredients were more than we thought but much less than we imagined. Did we write the script we now recall or do we ghost read? These short days strung upon such a long string, each one a story told to ourselves; a bead on a rosary of belief that now unravels to clatter upon a floor that is disappearing under our feet.