Time switches back on itself, folding over

while you meet people you once knew

or didn't know--

his eyes flash like another's; her walk,

the cadence not her own.

Waking up again in the same bed

on the same sheets you've slept in before,

feet hit carpet,

shuffle.

Fingers rub at remnants

of sleep

of wake

or sands brought by the sandman

and that week at the beach

and that time

the boy

kicked sand into your eyes.