it's the same idea. the first version
of the narrative mirrored exactly
the factual events, while later editions seem
to have been revised—
like the Greeks and their wine colored sea
being a bright blue to us now,
as most of the time looking back
through the fog bending into the city streets,
we find more than there was, and less than we
needed and hoped for, or something completely different
or the opposite.
i curl up close next to my first instincts
they are red in the face, fixated on
the streetlight streaks shining through the slivers of
the blinds, unfolded, their breath slight, quivering.
the blank sky is falling to make a blank ground.
it isn't a surprise.
i am trying to tell them,
their discoloration and instance won't
make anyone change their minds or change the trajectory they
are riding on, or create a rip in time,
to change anything back or
forward.
the sleet hits the window panes
forcing off the remnants of the last storm
only to remind us that it came, it was once here.