making me wish I was living without
a life with memory.
In warmer times, wanting and rushing,
without thinking and nothing else.
And then sudden dispersion,
no secrets, no magic,
a hidden useless pain, serene emptiness
that was memory too.
rewinding tapes, untiring fingers
opening page after page.
Then nights together, of strange love,
and tears sometimes, faces, thoughts
behind indecent fences of bravery.
rid of thinking, and joyful hours
playing at the hour's edge
next to sleep.
Memory should be straight, not crooked
forcing itself off track
into corners dark where forgetfulness
and shame reign.
There should be ways of stopping
this chain grinding me into night.
I would be a willing slave to
sweet amnesic solitude, resting
after calm impotence.
I would regress to cold winters
and sweet summers and warm fingers
unruffling my long hair.