While ladies draw their stockings on
The ladies they were are up and gone,
I pen my lines, I finish, I scan them,
I’m not the poet who began them.
Each moment Time, the lord of changers,
Stuffs our skin with ephemeral strangers.
Good heavens, how remote from me
The billion people I used to be!
Flinch with me, brothers, why not flinch,
Shirts caught in the eternal winch?
Nash
Rodney Graham, Small Basement Camera Shop circa 1937, 2011