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At times I feel the past
Confront the present face to face,
As though a person or a place,
An object even, had crashed
A temporal gate. The thens,
The nows, all those things that most resemble
Truth (my library!) suddenly crumble,
Along with my sense
Of equilibrium:
What has become of the great minds?
That which enlightens also blinds.
Like a child’s tantrum
Or a small, summer squall,
The disturbance soon runs its course.
The books and the clock, none the worse
For war, resume control.