May 27, 2009, 11:18 PM ET

Past. Tense. A poem.

Can we recover from our past?

Or does it seep through to the present as the garish color of underlying old wallpaper left unstripped will usually show through to the pale expensive layer on top and spoil everything?

You know the answer.

The past is never safely in the past.

It punctures the present: a needle pricking a balloon. It sneaks into right-now life, sly as a pickpocket, invisible and unnoticed until a witness cries out.

The unhealed past will seep through layers of time as a deep enough wound will bleed through layers of gauze bandages, however neatly applied.

It’s not like hanging wash on a line, where everything is clean and pinned into place, waiting for you to gather and fold it neatly into bundles.

The past is not done, or washed through, or finished. Don’t fool yourself, please.

Don’t look around; don’t look down. Don’t bother. It’s there. That’s your past: at your feet, on your shoulders, its hand on the back of your neck.

It’s stroking you softly in the very way you’ve come to hate.

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