Like the taste of wind escaping my hands.
Like tea gone cold, too steeped, unsipped.
Like letters, writ large upon a wall, such that
they can be read only one at a time
and the complete word never grasped.
Like time-travel science, sabotaged by itself
and terminated before it could learn its own extended secret.
Like a fat cat’s dream of gazelle in savanna grass,
interrupted by the creak of a tuna can lid opening.
Like graffiti on train cars, constrained to tracks,
observed and forgotten at the momentary
crossing of paths, but remembered,
perhaps with regret, by its artist.