by Bryan Borland
Time has fallen backwards into morning black holes,
where even the cats are confused we’re awake.
My clock is ticking fast these days, these neurons
misfiring with age and bursting memories,
like standing with my brother in front of the fireplace,
the warmth of it against the back
of my bare legs before school. Daylight savings
brought with it boxes of us together, things
I even forget to dream,
so that when I wake up, and it’s still dark,
I pretend his arm is around me
like in a photograph of us, circa 1982.
© Bryan Borland