Memory is a parasite,
and forgetting even worse.
Let others take over remembering,
it is a sure way of dying
for the days to come, all your dreams
stillborn.
I write off everything.
Still, worry funnels its lines to the skin,
under both eyes, where the tears go
refusing to flow. Frozen? Sad? Grieving?
No. Nor does weather change from hot to cold.
Too many hearts are left in mind, waiting . . .
If I could walk hot sand in my bare feet,
get wet, leave Carmel, bypass Monterey . . .
And you thought this was about death or fate.
So did I, until I arrived, happy.
(14 April 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander
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