19 November 2009

p.a.d. day eighteen


The act of forgetting is a slow one.
So much sneaks back in.

The fallen feather of a
belted kingfisher. The smell of
pepperoni pizza. The manner in which
a girl in the street quickly says hello and
then tucks her chin into her

Remnants of debris.

I stumble on their tangled bits.

Forgetting to remember to
forget is a fascinating,
formidable thing. Each
memory opening always
into another.

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