I was stacking logs, the chore foxing away
another hour of my life. The sun was cold
and fluorescent, its quilt of life hard on
my brain, but tonight it would snow upon
my black pond, and my choices were
limited. Other cold water holes came to
mind—billabongs of my youth—but all
this thinking has left me undernourished:
Lethe, darling—let me drink of you, let
me wash in your riverly forgetfulness
so that I might live again without such
knowledge. This myth warmed me as
I worked, thirsty and lonely. Classical
tunes and stories awaited me indoors,
and I hurried to finish, feeling sad, so
sad. All this cultural sediment, decades
of joy and waste, but you can’t put your
arms around an idea. What is it that I
have done? Books get remaindered. All
these logs I chop will burn. Still, I continue
to strive to thicken my knowledge.