Already those days have passed
into the sequence of dreams.
Perfect. Passed on.
Already they have become part of lore.
A miracle. Bending the impossible.
Like framed photographs of dead people –
With bright eyes, happy faces, always 35.
That’s who I used be, who I could be –
And that’s you, as you had been –
or is it the way I remember you?
Maybe that’s how I’d like to forget you.
I wonder if your dreams match mine –
Your memory versus my memory –
Your picture of how I used to be
how we were:
In a hurry to live, before winter.
In between dreams, pinned-up memories,
the agonizing with the detail of the dream,
chewing on twigs of memory, and,
oh, amidst this whirlwind mass of moments,
forgetting must be a good idea.
No more photograph people at 35 –
No more straying into optimism –
No more soul magic or that
force field that refuses to weaken –
Then I wonder: will I agree?