3.

Some table-talk at lunch, of memory,

the anecdotal hypnotist who could

unlock the nursery. Not babyhood

occurred to me, but two weeks buried by

the next five years. That’s when I should have made

poems each extraordinary day,

and I could read them now and brush away

the dust accrued over a half-decade,

and I’d remember everything we said

when I thought we were saying everything.

We did, I guess, what everybody does,

if I were better at remembering.

Sometimes I wonder who I thought I was

and who on earth I thought was in my bed.