Gone, again and why
do I think I’ll remember the image, scent,
overheard perfect line,
words that hopped in the car on the highway
to keep company with the others, gathered
like wildflowers on that dirt track,
the steep hill, the long coast down
the other side.
Was it something the waitress said?
Skinny, tattooed, overwhelmed by the crowd
of hungry tourists?
No. It was that tableful of theater people,
The one woman who talked so Loud-
Trained to project her voice—she said,
“It’s my goal in life to bring horror to live theater.”
How Singular, Spectacular,
Goals are so
So here’s mine: to remember
isn’t to be trusted.
Write it down. Background noise
of all delicious varieties
steal away the right words.
If I remember nothing much,
Remember this. Write it down
To see what I saw.