Haven't we met?----

in the amber protoplasm

of the cell

where air

is blue and clear,

and windows

cloudy orange----

or were we Scottish rabbits,

London, 1603?

So hard to tell

with facing mirrors

reflecting eternity

every glance.

These genes

are not mine

you know.

Most belong to another

and need to be lived again.

Dare to come?

Upon arrival

we will be seated—

monogrammed chairs—

have wishes granted

before we ask,

and watch re-runs—

“Father Knows Best”

where bud runs away,

returns,

and all is forgiven…

being told

he had never left.

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