(no subject)

[proximoception]

The trick to a poem, I think
is that we forget absolutely everything.

While obnoxious, this time-again reopens
the forever disintegrating path
to living again the best of all possible moments
which though of course neither taken nor recognized,
for the most part and maybe not ever, still
there is for a spell intertranscontinuity
of ether and path smells and creatures
the which, metaphorical, act as real signs
and later, as dream things, can stay live in memory
enough on some rare days for some
to sketch out a recipe map (in what words touch
these merge) to a place
where, not living again the best of all possible moments,
we're at least close enough to not forget
to not care
to not be.