Poem with Accidental Memory

That we go back to life one day, the next, Some other century where we were alive, When music spelled itself out to us, often Incomplete, and nothing was more vague Than the banality of  whom to love and lose In line, the doppelgangers in rimless snow, Or even now, in summer, at day, by night, When something oblivious, replete, turns Back at us in idolatrous quiet, so we see Who in nullified particulars we really are At a desk of our own making, filling in for Someone else’s life sentence, blots drying On a silk tie having no meaning but today’s, When the loner puts his insomnia to rest.