Memoir

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