I don’t have an answer
to anything anymore,
not one.
I can’t remember anything
new. I can’t remember
what just happened,
though I know
I once knew that.
I alternate between
ever refreshed rage
at the injustice
of each lost moment
and pained memories of
what once was,
so far long gone ago,
or so I’m told.
My one present pleasure’s
the garden —
the scent of the tomato plants
when I’m weeding in close
to their thorn-fuzzed stems. The dill
on my hands, the rosemary
in my skin. How I fret over
when things will sprout,
grow, bloom, fruit! I participate
in the old this way
while being aware
that there is a future
inherent in this work.
Gardening tells me
there can be happiness
even now, even as
all else
is slipping off
and falling away.
Dark Matter 