Here I am, deviating from the golden shovel exercise,
as I attempt to excavate the past in order to find some lost words
let loose in the sugarbowl resting on the sideboard,
where it sings of the stars, remembering a distant past
where they dreamed of that lost light gathering like ants,
but they were not seeking an escape, as there is no there there,
as the poet once said, because memory dictates nonsense
to itself recollected in tranquility, and we have a little else to do
but to decode it as best we can, pretend it all makes sense
as we chase our dreams, the only memories we really own.
2/22/23
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