March 20

It’s as if, as if
what I said to you, to you
doesn’t exist. As if

existence and the years since
have washed us, washed us
clean of our ignorance,

of remembrance. As if
what was in motion
is now a still image, still

imaged, somewhere, on canvas,
still stuck in some darkness,
those dark retinas, and a decision,

deciding someone was better,
better for us, than this. As if
our nights were just nights

when we happened to
happen upon this. On this
I can expound, can expand

my heart made hard enough
to riff on that beating. As if
we could sit, still, and discuss

this, and come back to this.
As if, somehow, some digits
could be, in some order,

untwisted, could unlock
the mettle that locked
this. As if somewhere

down the road we could
get back to this. But we
can’t, won’t, shouldn’t.

And so, we should,
should we, forget? As If
we could, as if we must.

As if.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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