just before you're finally
too depleted
to resist
that all-
assuaging laudanum
of oblivion,
think of this:
the loss
of thought itself
is just a kind of
flawless memory;
a blame-
and stainless knowing,
which, at last, is
yours alone;
a finely
spun but tightly
braided looseness
you can hold;
the only spotless
bit of "gone"
you'll ever get
to own.