On Forgetting

There is a certain distress 

comes tied with forgetfulness. 

That we might forget our love

is a truer mutilation than death,

somehow more deeply rooted.

But perhaps the real mark hits

when we savor this forgotten thought;

taste its rarity and abandon acutely.

Maybe this is how we really burn.

Yesterday I forgot my age,

And tomorrow or tomorrow I will die

having forgotten most everything completely,

having loved so much for a full casket.

But who wouldn’t find a measure of haunted beauty in this?

To die with mind a backwardfacing mirror,

having lived chromatic!

For with the sunset such a majestic afterthought

who would care to recall the noon?