Poem with Accidental Memory

That we go back to life one day, the next,

Some other century where we were alive,

When music spelled itself out to us, often

Incomplete, and nothing was more vague

Than the banality of  whom to love and lose

In line, the doppelgangers in rimless snow,

Or even now, in summer, at day, by night,

When something oblivious, replete, turns

Back at us in idolatrous quiet, so we see

Who in nullified particulars we really are

At a desk of our own making, filling in for

Someone else’s life sentence, blots drying

On a silk tie having no meaning but today’s,

When the loner puts his insomnia to rest.