Meet me in Montauk.
No, I’ve never been
But I hear it’s where you go
to pick up pieces of yourself,
Pieces of a life once dreamed
Where you go to fish memories
from the ocean of time
And stitch them together like a patchwork quilt
A soggy patchwork,
I don’t know if the sun shines eternal or what shoes you should wear
Just that I need you to catch the dreams
that have slipped through my fingers,
through these sieves for pockets,
and left a trail of dust in my wake
A trail of half-living, easily blown into the abyss of history
The ethereal evidence of my consciousness
Lost to futile strife for a spotless mind.
Memory-fisher, Dream-catcher, Consciousness-finder:
Please, meet me in Montauk.
(Photo credit: Wolfgang Wander)