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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
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.