surely some just close a door, tear out a page
and wherever they go, they go without a past
like glass in the heel of every step, leaving the
limp to those who can't forget even as it
gets in the way of feeling anything else, of
doing or being differently. The whirl of current
unsettles the sediment, but only for a moment;
the action of a spoon in a cup, nothing more
than remembering to put it off, again. It's not
quite pressing delete, but with spoons forbidden
and time ticking steadily to when mattering
at all, to any, will be done. I'd do the same to
you if I could, take away the frame, rebuild
the wall with no door to open, the book of
burned. Time is quietly murdering what storage
and burning have failed to elide and this,
this lamp attending, fuel a greasy smear and
fumes, sputters pleading for the finality
Please break my mind, start with the eyes
finish with the memory, and let a certain laugh
years behind now, be the last last thing to go.
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