If memories make for a good life
Then forgetfulness takes life away
In tiny fragments that tumble down
The embankment of our disappearing self —
To the river, then to the sea.
Each day I lose so many treasures —
Of friendly faces,
Of familiar places,
Of Hemingway’s Robert Jordan,
Of the horrors I am capable of, and
The terrifying fears that define me.
I have slept and I have dreamed of Borges,
I have screamed at the approaching tiger, now
I’m forgetting so many things; yet
There’s a solemn magic in forgetting —
To see things anew, or
To read a poem for the first time, again.
With bravery and stoic determination