reflex

conifer wreaths are splendid
if not taken in context;
they die most unnoticed and
i sit.

the old tan abandoned wreck
was cleared when i went back;
story of my life in rust-form.

i take and don't resist, a form
mellow yet pure. my mind
demands such perceptions.

there were no more echos as it
was 20 years and i am rough and
weakened-
perhaps guilty,
perhaps a prank worthy
of groucho marx.
i don't laugh.

no matter- past is reflex
and i sip wine and don't notice
deepenings;
rigid wood floors grow;
love buds and grooms and i
don't notice.