Like the taste of wind escaping my hands.
Like tea gone cold, too steeped, unsipped.
Like letters, writ large upon a wall, such that
     They can be read only one at a time
     And the complete word never grasped.
Like time-travel science, sabotaged by itself
     And terminated before it could learn its own extended secret.
Like a fat cat's dream of gazelle in savanna grass,
     Interrupted by the sound of a tuna can
     Opening.
Like graffiti on train cars, constrained to tracks,
     Observed and forgotten at the momentary
     Crossing of paths, but remembered,
     Perhaps with regret, by its artist.