Tell me when the day has lost its hopeful glow in morning,
When it stopped feeling like the morning before vacation,
Early eyes watering, fluttering lids like wings,
When the opening of a door began signaling transgression
And not opportunity,
The sound of laughter mean cruelty
And never joy.
Tell me where is the place that our invisible hearts and imaginary minds Meet, mathematically
Remind me; and remind me to remind you. There are things that will be forgotten.
Somewhere there is a place where winter firs retain their coats through winter. Blizzards knit the
white snowcaps that dot the ascending terrain.
We walk with ancestors up through the forest, without Virgil.
We’re going to come to a high place, I’m told.
There is a place on high and I know when we get there we
Remind me to remind you
Remind me to remind you again.
Put your hands on the wall
Put your hands on me and the wall at once. Feel that.
I can’t feel what you’re feeling.
Yes you can.
I just don’t think I
But What if
I’m sure I ca
I’m sure I cah
There are things that I have forgotten,
And that is all I know.
To be alive, to grow older, is to slowly drift away, Canoelike,
Slowly off and away into that mist of memory. Won’t you remind me?
There are things that have been forgotten.
I thought I saw you in a co-op in Brooklyn last Friday But it was not so
She sauntered in as I was leaving
For the first time
Out the front door
I even tried to tell you that
I even said it through the computer
But someone else must have been using it Voyeuristically deleting and logging out
Or maybe it was you looking
And that is your way out.
J.T. Makoviecki is a writer from the Pine Barrens of New Jersey living in Philadelphia. His first novel The Imaginary Line is available on Amazon.
Steve Warren’s interests are in the healing arts, poetry, photography, dance, the nutritional arts and much more. He is a peer specialist in the recovery movement.
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