I forget my indiscretions
and take comfort in pine cones.
I forget my spelling, my modicum of poor French,
my car keys. Some days I forget my name.

I forget the road and the destination,
The Way and the Detour,
silver bells and the lost clappers,
the broken grates, the run-over shoes,
the colors of indifference,
and all the beggars I never gave to.

I forget your slippery slights,
the lily bulbs the voles consumed all winter,
the time I wasted on thinking
and the hours I gave to fools.

I forget that silly girl
I used to be. She is the sound
of trumpets fading and the color of time.
I forget how sad she was
and how happy

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