The Middle of Nowhere

My visions disappear almost
before they are formed—
What was I thinking?—
I don’t know.

Sometimes I recapture a tiny piece,
an image that means something
I’ve already forgotten.
Is this mortality?—

an incurable dementia
of misplaced references
to things long departed
to things incomplete?—

or are the threads of time
so frayed so tangled
so densely packed that
they have rewoven themselves

into another life?—one
that combines what I once
gazed upon with the secrets
I could never share.