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Poem	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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