subtextures by subtext

An old man sneezes;

startled, tattered butterflies

flutter to the sky.

Nearby, two bluejays argue

their displeasures with the world.

details, like mosaics, decades old

around eleven, the adrenaline slow 

fall from my red Christmas bike,

ripping skin on loose gravel,

catching the pain across my palms

facts of a sort

followed by conjecture

the sky was winter grey—

I was heading home (from where)

hurriedly (was I late, for what

or just the thrill of speed

or both— fear and joy dancing

together like flames)

perhaps, perhaps

what-ifs’ multitudes unravel

with time and causal doubts

as perhaps twist and spin into now’s

singular, tight, and irretrievable knot

I tell myself I know and knew

the bits of broken glass cohere

but I don’t anymore than I did

I fell, I bled, I must

have made it home

for I am here