#143
The old bell of memory has never been tuned,
Won't sound unless rattled or rolled
Across table or floor. It's not a bell to be tolled,
But when rung blood seeps from an invisible wound.
Memory is a bust without shoulders or breasts,
Beauty the rubbing of thought once ruined.
(A sere rose (and brittle stem, one green leaf plucked) rests,
Exhausted by its perfume, relieved to be pruned.)
Memory's eyes are always closed, as though she dreams
To forget dark clouds, cold seas, and a sickle moon.
Dreams are harder to remember, it seems,
When tomorrow always arrives so close and soon.
I tend to her wound and kiss her cold lips,
One eye open for the lunar eclipse.