Once I was proud of the things I had learned.
Any moment could remind me of another—
Ivan Grozny murdering his son could be evoked
by drinking vodka on a cold and rainy day,
the phantasms of summer evening were more terrible still
and arose of their own accord,
and any woman could be brought to life
through the touch of a different woman.
Memory is not an insurmountable thing,
but most times we are not willing
to make enough fire to entirely burn our library.
We are left with husks:
proper nouns
the shading of green in a lover’s eyes
the words she says when she is asleep.
Nearly everything is dying again.
I have been waiting for winter all year
but it does not satisfy me.
I loved a woman once and she lives on
like the pine trees that are planted
to hide a forest that has just been cut down.
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