Sometimes I forget

Sometimes I forget

I forget about the last of the light
touching the tips of the fields

of how the sea breathes all night
of the soft soot of shadows
held in the hedgerows

the smallness of a Wren
the greater smallness of its heart
then I imagine its beating
a buzz that blurs its edges

sometimes I forget
dew drops
spider socks
hung out in the morning
on the web of the rotary dryer

I forget the ghosts
rags in the river
wind swelling the sheets
sunlight slow as snow
touching the seabed

sometimes I forget
how long it takes light
to get out from inside the sun
then I remember
I never really knew

but I like to think about it
the drunk stumbling down the street
whispering a song to himself

and how slight
the distance for light
walking the fading field
before touching the midnight
in your eyes

I forget so much
the silence of the page
the way it curls with the shadows
inside a piano

that you held me once
your flame in my mouth
then I remember
how to cry

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