Brittle Bones of Memory
I am forgetting something.
A casual phrase, a broken word. Commentary on modern poetry. I run through a library of random possibilities, but nothing registers. Let’s blame Edward Hirsch. I have been reading his verses the last few nights. Examining the nuances of his style and his various allusions, references to Greek myths, his father’s slow dementia, calamities of World War. And then, one can blame the clump of papers dropped into my schedule, material needed to be graded—it’s only certain some items will be lost, vocabulary forgotten. Yet,
A casual phrase, a broken word. Commentary on modern poetry. I run through a library of random possibilities, but nothing registers. Let’s blame Edward Hirsch. I have been reading his verses the last few nights. Examining the nuances of his style and his various allusions, references to Greek myths, his father’s slow dementia, calamities of World War. And then, one can blame the clump of papers dropped into my schedule, material needed to be graded—it’s only certain some items will be lost, vocabulary forgotten. Yet,
• 11/ A blank page easily irritates. A hesitation frustrates. On the other hand, a lost thought burns. The brittle bones of memory— always on the verge of breaking, snapping as a dry tree branch, under the heavy weight of midwinter—•
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