How strange, to be in two
places at once, or in two times.  This
Cambridge Sunday afternoon, that's
me, he says—here, sitting with his
tailbone hanging off the couch's
edge, friends and Sunday paper
spread around the living room,

and there, on radio, playing
bass guitar—no three places—
somewhere, live, on stage, recording
the song for radio broadcast—
four--his mind remembering
how he felt that day, the place
he played, so he's none

of those places, really, nor here
now, either.  And me—I'm five,
giggles rising in the Santa Barbara
air like soap bubbles—my
uncles tickling me—
delight so lucid
I can return to it anytime without

going anywhere—I think.  And I
am thirty-two in the summer of '92,
paddling a friend's canoe across
a Vermont pond at dusk. 
And you?  Are you where your body,
or your mind is, and is this
the reason for our obsession

with our location in space and time?
Some fear we're floating aimlessly
through a fathomless, and therefore,
fearsome universe, or worse, circling
the same memories the way this dog
turns several times around
before lying down at last, to sleep?