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Memo
Broken wheel
Broken star
Names
Relics
Places one has been
and is remembered--
or forgotten.
Places one has
never been before
but recalls, on
sight, in full
disturbing detail.
Fragments...
Scraps of old
loveletters whirling
in the cosmic winds:
we are more than
we think, more
than we remember.
civilizations rise
and fall in the dank
cellars of the mind
never seeing light.
We awake in the night
with a name on our
lips.
Whose?
Childhood reels before
the myriad worlds
offered it
while old age clutches
in palsied hands
a few convictions
wrung from
some forgotten crisis
and never let go of.
We are something less
tangible than
(and not unlike)
the wind.
Nothing material
reassures us,
least of all our
own flesh.
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