From the prayer of forgetting
The shapes at the water’s edge
They are not your memories
They are the clothes of the drowned. Forgotten
Because they are no longer needed.
After a long walk through life you were tired.
You paused, hand on knee, to rest. It took
A little longer than you thought to catch
Your breath and the trees had been bulldozed
And the spiders had covered you with the silk
Of memory. I came with a single dream’s knife
And cut a slit so you could back out. Later the city
Builders saw the shape standing alone
Like a magnificent cocoon, covered
It with stone and called it a church.
Your soul comes to you
Like bees finding their hive
Assembling into shapes almost
Making sense to your eye
Defined by a sweetness it will never taste
And a sting it will not survive.
The onomatopoeia of forgot,
Regret. They sound like things
That almost are but aren’t
Solid enough to take steps
Or kneel on stone in prayer.
I invalidated a receipt once
By writing a poem on it.
No further exchange was
Necessary or authorized.
Like a cowbird I laid that egg
in the nest of your eyes
And you have raised it
Into something that flies
Away from you, recognizing
Neither of us as its maker.