David Fekete

Enumeration of my past, too much time spent in enumeration
Wondering when I ceased to live, yielding to my memories
Enumerating in my reflections accomplishments, the places I lived
Summing the life behind me fondly, calculus of accumulation
And, perhaps, a grim realization that I might have figured it all wrong
Those paragraphs written into my story as if the book were complete
One day I wondered what I was doing
The paragraphs I wrote, that made my story, what was I doing then
That I’m not doing now?  Why did I stop writing experiences
Cave and surrender to the belief that it’s all behind me
I don’t think that the COVID lockdown explains it all
Nor my preacher’s call to articulate ontic reflections
It is not even poetry’s genesis through immersion in words’ reflexivity
Scripting echoes of the muse’s enchantment
This pause from chasing living unaware, when I built those memories
It was fun, I was having fun not knowing I was writing the book of my life
That my life would pause and I would take to reading—fondly, indeed—
In the cessation of the writing process.  I realized, rather abruptly,
Like waking from sleep, I’m not done with the poesis of original text
No, I’m not done at all.  I don’t think it’s just structured relaunch
And now all restrictions are eased and I’m back at it
This re-engagement with life, this spirited recovery
Living unaware, writing again and it is no time to reflect,
I’m alive again pausing only to scrawl this note
The enumeration of which I defer to some distant calculus of memory
Mimesis of life should I turn again to find myself passively reading