Foreground Bias

A row of sharp cliffs behind
A short row of dark, parked cars,
And then dawn swallows the stars.

Would you recognize your life
If some magician cut out
The decades between childhood

And now? All your big words tossed
Around—capitalism,
Colonialism, God,

Surrealism, justice,
Historical amnesia—
How old are they? They won’t last

Longer than the smaller words,
And even the smallest words—
Ma, da, you, one—aren’t that old,

Younger than these rows of cliffs,
Which are younger than the dawn.
But then there are those parked cars.