at the bottom of the valley where the river runs through
i do not remember your voice any more.
i remember the sound of it, warm honeyed against
my eyes, the facts of its meaning. i hear pounding
in the basement and howling at the windows,
and i daily walk through lakes. clouds clamp down
over my head. i spend all my time pulling
hairs from the wall. i do not remember your
fingers, only their thickness, and the drumming
hallucinations they danced. i do not remember
anything but waking up this morning: dry-cracked
and empty, listening, curled around some new
ruby thought whose hands waste no memory.
all my notebooks are empty, all my pockets full.
i spend all my time writing harmonies on dollar
bills. i'd rather smell tea than do anything about it.
at the bottom of the valley where the river runs through
a cloud crawls through me and i am happy.