It is written
that a man,
a gradually forgetful man,
may one day choose to remember
what he has forgotten and,
screwing his eyes shut solid
in his head, will forget it once again
and will call a woman by a name
she doesn’t recognize,
but she will respond as if it was
the right name and,
verbally, smile and then pat
the man’s hand after and go on
as if it did not matter, as it will
truly not matter in the moment
and only after will he see, in a flash,
in a whipsaw moment, how wrong
he was; then he will berate himself and
seek her name again and
find it in a book
and be crushed by it
as if it were a stone
rolling down some hill
he had forgotten;

it is written
that the man will calm down —
diminished, of course;
smaller, naturally;

it is written
that he will turn from his debacle
and, sitting down, will scope news
of distant war and
looming apocalypses
for others, thinking, worrying
that they are perhaps for him:
imagining the wary looks
of lawmen on the street,
the suspicious eyes of neighbors;

it is written
that he will turn
his own deep worry about his own eyes —
how they don’t see what they used to see
in the shade of the planet, in the
nighttime of night’s soil on the sheet —
then with a start, afraid unreasonably,
he will turn away from that
without understanding it;

it is written
that somewhere not here,
in a place not easily found,
not accessed through sight,
beyond his failing sense of order,
is the explanation of all of this
nonsense, of the thick stew
in his head that occasionally
pops up a factoid or
something resembling one;

it is written
he will close his eyes
upon this one more time,
and say to himself,
somehow:
just a few more years, just
a few more years to wait;
then he recalls the words.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T