Memento II

The ephemera of my blinked
existence live in shoeboxes,

cigar cases dust-lined and
discolored as if from slow fire

smoking through teenage
correspondence, solemn feelings,

molars and other artifacts
dropped from us

and kept for the reason why
there may be birds which

forget to find their lives beautiful
when nesting, when soaring and

anxious on telephone lines
I dig up the source

but am pulled under
because there was more to

the story that had or hadn’t
happened:

tickets and once-scented kerchiefs
and the newness of love,

a mirror that isn’t,
we ultimately do not stumble

upon ourselves, only someone else
who remembers by keeping

 



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