Fence

Peering over the other side of the fence I see the before of my mind, street-lit, humid--synapses firing on all correct cylinders. Twilight and fireflies dancing in memory now fading, my hands falling delicate as they grip the top of the pickets. On this side, the after, is the smell of sodden wet pavement and moths still gathered 'round a broken street lamp (lost) looking for a shy moon to guide them. But this is not night, this is black; a brain confused, wandering in circles, tasting cherries, windfallen and sour from an expired tree. Thoughts like an elevator or perhaps a tennis ball--synapses firing in misdirections. My only wish is that I knew how to climb fences.