Memory’s Constraints

“the fog solidifies among us”

            –Tristan Tzara

As a dark spider webs

her partly-poisoned prey,

he shapes another wall

around another day.

Beneath his crippled hands

a mausoleum soars

to contain all his fears

in tightly patterned rows.

Each dawn descends to dusk,

as dusk ascends to day.

How one can thus escape,

he cannot aptly say.

Most days are forgotten,

Lost in this clotted fog.

(September 16, 2019)

Weeks Before Winter Solstice

W

                                      “and I am

out with hanterns, looking for myself”

                        –Emily Dickinson

Despite the lights in the house,

The darkness penetrates.

It assumes positions in corners,

Presumptuous in its domain.

Like lions pace a cage’s confines,

I am lost in loops of thought

Looking for a set of keys

Which will let me inside.

Yet, there is no rest within

Nor without which can comfort

Enough to bring a closure;

Locked in my obsessions,

I worry each item in turn,

Tangled like tumblers at a fair.

(November 26, 2018)

No Crumb, No Trail

Whirlygig

 

“and the night is coming on,

which has no hope of dawn”

–Anna Akhmatova

 

I lost myself

out of myself

 

like a sleeve

slips over skin,

 

a new coat

to hide within.

 

One is more

than one’s

 

manifold

projections,

 

convex

reflections,

 

staid

contradictions.

 

I lost myself

in a storm,

 

my broken arms

flailing the wind

 

with a whirlygig’s

frantic clacking.

 

I lost myself

again, too often,

 

too easily—

donning disguises:

 

losing myself

out of myself

 

without myself—

broken, alone.

 

(March 30, 2018)