preserved memory in velvet purses of rhyme,
stitched with meter. Their fiery tales a breath
of vapor, have survived many fires.
Some insist memories stick to our subconscious
like stamps on a postcard with Jungian script--
Dear Ego, . . . . Love Id. Shipped through
blood lines or to the collective.
What do you say, where are our memories
archived--our senses, our walls, our clouds
and what if our pharmaceuticals or our servers
go wrong? What if our memory were lost?
Maybe control is a white dove, a mental dream
where solar flares and cosmic change have
only cool breath to blow. Where red
giants never wake, where carrier pidgeons fly.
So I will write a poem, one for each dream and one
for each memory. For every crinkled note honeyed
over in the hive of my mind, I will take it out,
smooth it over, squint at my illegible scrawls--
and from them write a story. A story about...
how we have all loved different things
a story about how we all have loved.