Memory takes
the chair
places it perfectly
in mid-air
yet erases the stair
that brings me there
forgets to sketch in
the rest of the house
the storm is placed
just outside the window
(just as it was)
livid with lightning
the voice of the thunder
the window appearing
out of nowhere
a wall a little
unsure of itself
appears & disappears.
Memory still holds us
curled up together
the chair's pattern
imprinted on your skin
each one not knowing
where one ends or begins
your voice
creates the story
& I
intently listen
unwilling to miss
a single syllable
the poem written
upon your breath
memory as if obcessed
attempts to recover
what is...lost
puts it back
bit by bit
until it almost
achieves a perfect
fit
but
not
...quite
Death erasing
every scene
as it is
written
memory desperate
to attain a perfection
arrange and re-arrange
it again.
Death always
one second ahead
memory always
one second behind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Was it a dream, or was it real.... Unable to know, or feel.... Only to remember, and see... My love for you.... Your love for me... Pressed into the mind Of memory.