is to forget the music
so that we can hear it again.
Which means that when I say
I have never loved
I want to know again.
On some days we’re just filters
voiceless to sunlight and straightlaced
detergent commercials designed to make you feel guilt
for what you are.
Some weekend’s plans go unresolved
given to porches or recklessness.
Reckless porches on a remote one way.
What is and isn’t here,
what turns its back and returns
to the sources
of where it happened: born
to different zip codes and half
parental warnings, half apologies
like a bee sting, your memory baked
ballet tragedies, my connection to clay
in the backyard.
I’m always forgetting your middle name
despite its vague echo this sunday
like a country.