The Iowa Review - - NEWS - Dan ch­e­lotti

I’m not wor­ried about any­thing But my in­abil­ity to re­mem­ber Every­thing. The lichens In the mar­malade light On the back­yard boul­ders Of for­ever ago? No prob­lem. The hor­i­zon­tal blades of win­ter Rain on the win­dow of the com­muter Rail train. Got it. But the weight Of her asleep on my lap. Gone. I have no prob­lem with the mo­ments That will live for­ever, my prob­lem Is with the ones that won’t. The last Thing my fa­ther said to me, Ap­par­ently, is not one that will. The first time my daugh­ter Smiled at me? Some­how, Fuck all, that’s gone. Why does The ailan­thus out the win­dow Rat­tling against the wind That is in it get to win? In the round game of what We take with us the po­etry Is not in the events, It is in the ceil­ing fan’s Chain clink­ing against The sum­mer rain land­ing On the lilacs en­cas­ing The screens. That im­age Alone de­vours sev­eral Sum­mers of events. How can that be? Must I re­main con­tent With the doves on the deck And the lilies ob­nox­ious On ev­ery sur­face when I could

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