Remember first love? Falling and flailing in it?
So brutal a thrill ride, and this heart its skiff-
come on, you know the song-sing with a minute-
where smacked on a granite sea, we bare and grin it?
Time's passing the booze again. Come, take a whiff.
Memory of love outpretties the being in it,
as any idiot knows. Hound dog then linnet,
that's the bestiary: what once howled croons a riff.
Come on, you know this song! Croon with a minute.
A white dress sprawls in candlelight. On the spinet,
wax spatters the hardwood casing and pools stiff�
Memory of love, outprettying being in it,
refines some bits (that hair-when to unpin it;
sweat pants; the moog), but come on, they're periph-
eral-not the real song of us! Any minute,
our seized, spent day, so small and so infinite,
will unseal from spilled light, heat, and wax, as if
memory of love might still bear time's breath in it.
Weren't their crooned come-on to us now, this minute.
In Praise of Memory by Derek Kannemeyer | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
$20.00Price
