The Deep Past

When I look into the deep past,
Is it a pool of scorched grass that
Peers at me through the looking-glass?

Is it the doorway to some outside room,
Where every hand I've shook is castrated
And given its own private nook?

Does the little light pierce a foot in Brazil?

How to tell if the time gone hates the time come?

Long vault and sharp retract, a glance back,
Where rocket-heads flame and the vast list
Of names wave me away with their
Double-barrel wrists.

How to tell if the I gone hates the me now?

And when I look into the deep past,
It'll remain deep and passed.

O.Wilks