I have forgotten the moment - the only moment like it, a fingerprint in the ether
worth seven days, seven dollars, several decades in a book full of other forgotten moments with a rose crushed between them.
Spring on some Philly street corner. Begats in shags and big lapels, unknowns, not yets, no longers.
My mother’s hair, forever blonde in silver halide, and her tawny eyes meeting her little boy here, now,
in a body much older than hers, its cells constantly turning over like an old rock band
with no original members, playing hits they didn’t write to a new generation hearing them for the first time.