Tuesday, March 23, 2021


          Remembering is only a new form 
          of suffering. 

Surely, there were words 
which prickled 
my skin—

or certain actions 

which bleakened my sleep 
and slurred 
my waking. 

But freed from the sway
of the diary page 

and placed, without prejudice,
on a more 
celestial timetable, 

I watched 
every ordeal recede 
to a speckle

of light on 
one wave 
of perpetual ocean.

And once I grew tired  
of watching the pageant, 

I was free to leave the shore—
my memory, a palace 
filled to the brim, 

filled to the turrets 
with the bliss 
of its blankness  

and uncertain 
of anything—save for 
the fact that

what happened 
to me 

had never been 
all that there was
to reality.