what was my life
is a museum of fading
memories
a lovely chapel
of sunlight &
many rooms
arranged in
the geometry of
remembered time
each day––
a work of art––
lovingly recorded
in a gilt-edged curatorial
notebook
time
meticulously primped &
arrayed in the order of
bright seasons
but look! how the catalog
pages are browning
& the floor plan maps are
brittle––
& a few of the years
may have vanished beyond
recollection
who can remember
with certainty––
since certainty
retired?
maybe you can still
find yourself
in the mirror
but you’ll need to remember
where the mirror is
first