late blooming golden rod sways in the uncut field
& all lays fallow until next year’s upward swing
so let the smoky wood-burn smell that won’t leave your clothes
linger from the bonfire the night before the laundry basket
still not full enough the smell wafts & makes you remember
two shoulders touching in straight-backed wooden chairs not-so-silent
skin on skin while the pulsing dark quickens crickets thrum their legs
strident chords no real harmony & remember feeling winded
from just two flights of stairs & remember sinking into a lake holding
you up & your entire body its own lake-river-pool-bathtub
a trace of you inside an unnamed uterus & everything you can’t remember
take it all back & the dreams come out of focus & reach towards
past lives you can’t hold & the horses ran away & came back
to the fields to gorge themselves off freshly dropped apples
& remember a new moon powerful quicksilver than full & rising & rising
nowhere & remember a bulge of amethyst like a bird’s egg of what’s solid
the stone not the filaments that I’ve managed to warp & weave through un-fulfilled
hearts like cornhusk silk threaded through holes in the sieve
On Creating False Memory
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