me, looking at your
wrist for the time.
No-one knocks on the door
living in boxes strung up
in the sky, glass locks
buttons to buzzers;
I miss the dialtones
and hot breath on my neck
An old memory, full of feeling gone worn away
ten million rememberings and the sharpness becomes
Rewind, play, rewind, play, pause
on those still-clear moments of joy, harder to
I, recollective Junkie, sits in a stripped
bare concrete basement, surrounded by discarded
pull-tabs from nutritional supplements.
An old anamnesis player wired to draw
current from a bare, broken bulb. The Memory
of a child’s birthday loops backwards and forwards;
the names forgotten, worn away and indistinct.
Stabbing a thin finger on the pause button
Shivering time forward
one cold moment
at a time.