It’s the same old same old every time:
when the first summer nights sweep across these fields
or this song gets played
it sinks in that nothing new can grow and
grow as old with me, because the countdown
has been on ever since. And even though some
entered way back when, they couldn’t stay.
As true as this is for sure, it leaves such pangs.
[This, by the way, used to be your word, how you captured
the effect the world and its pains have on you.
This index entry will stay yours, just as a few others I sometimes frequent.]
It wasn’t hard to forget that during
wintertime when forgetting falls from
the skies with these softest flakes.
But this isn’t it. This isn’t soft, isn’t still as winter’s cold.
This remembering is a heat, sweeping, stomping, slurring.
It leaves droplets on these skins
I’ve tried to shed.
What stays is the salt.
And there’s no living without that so –
they may stay, too,
even if they tug and tear and wear
me out at times.