First you think of buying a colorful flowered shirt as a sign of some sort of symbolic rebirth.
Then you think, "Again, with the symbolic rebirth? Or still? Still working on the same one?"
After that, a glimmer of affection for that guy in college who ended anecdotes with "Just imagine!"
Just imagine! It has been many years since you were in college, but if you let it, time folds like a piece of paper. When you hear that one New Order song, for instance, or that one Pixies album, you could almost just step across the fold and stand there in front of your James Dean poster with that guy in his checked shirt saying, "Just imagine!," basking in your nascent glimmer of affection.
In one way: Who cares? In another way: The slippery "you" of this poem does.
If you could have any power from a book, what would it be? (A) Tesseract? (B) Giving people's minds a little push so they'd acquiesce to your series of small demands? (C) Letting your mind unhook from caring about any of it, even the flower shirt? Letting it unhook from it all, like some Siddhartha or some sociopath from an existential novel, but without the murder?
Well, then. Happy spring to you.