Memory never happens, it doesn’t see
what’s coming. I have traded a muddy river for a train
and clay roofs for the rain that roused whirlygig creeks
and field elms, and geese swayed a foot above my head,
and a thousand miles inside the fossil
in which my eyes are planted. They’re not lost on me,
I hear them, still, their immutable talk of their brief lives; they
leave behind their astonished tracks in the air, as I do.