It's always been

I came to be
a century
too late.
I want to be picking bugs out of my window screens
and turn back to lined papers,
and the date?
It would be 1910, when Frost taught in New Hampshire,
and empty rooms didn't make so much noise,
and silence didn't startle anyone.
I will not ruin dreams with any faults
but one; that they are dreams.
In the year twenty-ten, Spring has come back
The same spring, but a new one. Lending dreams
another fault, I couldn't hear the mud
and heavy trees with thick ankles like when...
a child is due. I was busy picking
the carpet beetles up with sheets of tape,
and thinking all about my 1910,
when moving bodies wouldn't phase me, when
I undistractedly would write my fill
surrounded by... surrounded by brethren.
I am in 1910.

***

I don't think that this can be understood by anyone but me. I tried to make it so that it could... I felt good writing it.