the great forgetting
The Great Forgetting
Stripped hands and rubber
tangled ankles and a sunset
that blanketed oceans.
This time of year if you blink too slowly
the sun will set. And all that tends to happen
in clear daylight receds, curling itself under
water, taking a breath.
You forgot tickets in that drawer I wish I
could build. One day when I discover
what my hands can craft I’ll reprint
what’s worth remembering.
And why is it that books are filled with so many stories?
We cannot keep them all—our belongings heavy and whole.
So I removed a pebble from my bag and like wings, could
carry everything again.