Fast forward to 1995

Or 1986. Days of the Houston Tenneco Marathon. Running to the mall and back on Saturday mornings. There was no poetry, only thirty word essays.

There was no 9-11, we were still thinking about John Lennon getting shot. 2001 was a year in the future, and the Y2K problem wasn't even a gleam in anyone's eye.

Time, as a problem, won't go away. It keeps moving, fluidly.

And the numbers are still in my head.

Hears a piece from much later, to be found in an upcoming book of poetry, Notes From Everywhere.

My backyard considers me
An intruder
An alien

Strange and shuddering

On its infinitesimal world of lumpy earth, a part
Of the whole world.

What if each of us was buried in our backyard? Would the land behave?