. . . time never disappears: the lost past
is never lost i stand here on this mound
of time with you because my father asked
which way was west because his father found
the sea a way of life because his father met
in hannover a buxom peasant girl
because her farmer father tried to get
a wagon in the city
down
we
whirl
the docketing hill all slanted on
our narrow sloping trace
chains of lowercase letters gone
before we reach what seems like space
when poles from frozen hands are flung:
pens for stories in a broken tongue . . .