Gathering – by Loren Kwan

The falling fallen split, dropped
From what tall towers, reminding me

How we are–
Quiet strangers beneath,

Not so different,
Nose to nose–
Tender corpuscles bisecting
In forgotten Byzantium

Mosques to be re-razed
Again & again. The shadow of myself
Knowing the future,

But not the present,
Having lived it once before,
I must be dead,

And bound to feast here, where
Somewhere the trigger, stupendous,
Happily meets its finger, ender
Of our tiny wars,

Which are what they are–
Impotent nightmares & dreams

Already seen, now whither goes
My mind, chasing the soul?
Where goes my soul-fleeing mind?