I came across your fossilized remains in a broad cleft
and truth is, you didn’t look so different from the
other mastodons of the period; furry, slack eyed, half
burried in the tar pit. You made a lot of noise,
mostly words I could not make out, about the same
things I suppose.
I said mm-hmm a lot and rummaged in the fridge for wine,
all the time looking up Kent Street away
from the water and the city, west to the gathering clouds
and reeling if truth be told again, at the sameness of
this conversation, how preserved you are in time
how listening to you is like looking over my shoulder
how relieved I am to be divided by epochs.