I lose phrases every day
I misplace them and frantically
Search the house, pockets, drawers.
Sometimes I find them, but less often.
It’s what I always thought
If I don’t write, I won’t remember.
It all fades. I try not to go gently,
Owen’s moans in my ear, whispering
Dulce, dulce — and I know that my lot
is easy, irrelevant, painless in comparison.
None of which helps encroaching
depression and panic. Have you seen my words?