"the return"

by Jonathan Lee

there is a place for where my self returns
my self, my eyes, my feet can trace that path.
familiar brushes of wild wood and faint
caresses of the rhythmic flow on stone.
these images remain a fading print
which seems to be a strip of negatives:
my next return does not stand fair, nor hold
such purpose as before. i gather all
those curled remains and leave them far behind.