future self stew

We stir in reverse. 

and
things
undissolve to
ingredients we
take out and solve.

The stew's 
taking gulps
of breath sucked in steam
caught up from the air in bubbles
unbreaking to simmering skin, 

and descending to fire -
to surfaces out of all view 
and sign, but pretended
as understood sublime. 

Or at least well-guessed

We sit and gaze and 
stir in reverse and the pot 
unplays itself streaming back 
from future, to here.
To this. From at
last, 

to
first.

All
coalescing 

backwards to now, 
from goals of bliss in
life's distance as clear
as day
somehow, and yet,

as yet
nonexistence.  

We stir and bestir 
ourselves taking shape
towards us

from such fictive
future states as can't 
easily be unseen,
once we read
them 
unwrit,
and begin 
unfurling to seem,
and being, and so
have been.