It’s mathematical, distance and time add up to shadow.
—Li-Young Lee, The Winged Seed
The speaker’s ear is etched in memories
like a fragrance as faint as margins
of collateral or remembering a dream
of who used to be here. An erotic mania
exchanging an ever-present now.
Retrograde amnesia. Lazy echoes. A headline
claims we can’t grieve if we don’t remember.
Displaced pretext, panic attacks, then ghosts.
Wind chimes glitter as place separates from time.
Snow falls in the lower hills as if in documentary.