There once was a man. Of this I am sure.
But as the hours pass I remember less
the status of his chin or the class of his nose;
the rank of his brow or the courage of his hair line.
I find myself forgetting, and in forgetting
wondering if ever there was anything to know,
but still I gaze through windows and upset the couch cushions;
I look under papers and grope through the pockets of dirty jeans,
with a manic rush. As if, something important is slipping way,
like the middle two digits of a phone number, or the name of the girl
I met once while ordering coffee.
She had oak brown hair and blue-gray eyes. A fog skimmed reservoir,
which at once reminded me of the wet smell of morning and
the thrill of walking in on a world half-dressed.
And I hang to these things
for they are my metal; the truss and support that keep me,
that bequeath flesh to bone.
So when the heat ceases in my veins and my eyes hold no more room.
I remain.
** 5-3***
gray reservoir
and a girl I loved before I knew her name.