Georgic on Memory

 Make your daily monument the Ego,
use a masochist's epistemology
of shame and dog-eared certainty
that others less exacting might forgo.


If memory's an elephant, then feed
the animal.
 Resist revision: the stand
of feral raspberry, contraband
fruit the crows stole, ferrying seed

for miles .
.
.
 No.
 It was a broken hedge,
not beautiful, sunlight tacking
its leafy gut in loose sutures.
 Lacking
imagination, you'll take the pledge

to remember - not the sexy, new
idea of history, each moment
swamped in legend, liable to judgment
and erosion; still, an appealing view,

to draft our lives, a series of vignettes
where endings could be substituted -
your father, unconvoluted
by desire, not grown bonsai in regret,

the bedroom of blue flowers left intact.

The room was nearly dark, the streetlight
a sentinel at the white curtain, its night
face implicated.
 Do not retract

this.
 Something did happen.
 You recall,
can feel a stumbling over wet ground,
the cave the needled branches made around
your body, the creature you couldn't console.

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