When they say my short-term memory impairment
makes it difficult to say
if my working memory is working
I say, This is my retinue of donkeys and anthems.
When they say the pain processing circuits of my brain
break down and thus produce more pain
and that pain is then amplified
by any new pain, pranks included,
I say, The soul’s nearness.
The future makes things.
Because it has legs the future
makes things like high buildings and bodies
to be singled out or to be touching
or in a style that is touching.
A widow’s poor memory might
leave her at the table some mornings,
a lovely blue still burning off and
outside a new small boy clasping
an orange in his hand like a planet.
To get out of your body can take half an hour and
I have seen friends broadcast
past a progression of couches.
I mean it is lovely in the garage.
The sun made us a place for reflection.
All birds are descriptions. All tools are true faith.
The sun made us—the minutes
skewing forward small fires turning slowly.
The sun not even liking us.
How to tell the others?