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A Seizure

by Burt Beckmann

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.