This is not that river
portico filled with wet shadow
This is deciduous memory
and it grates against
designs we have concealed.
Each day concedes there is nothing
not one thing to take away from here.
Yet we make work of shredding everything
and our hands clutching at round river rock
tell us that some things stay
rooted as gingko on the bank
while others erode into the current.
Come tomorrow you will not know
why you cannot forget
dogmata of fairy tale
or from adult memory
erase the giver of this drink
whose fluorescent face
turned your tactile midnight form
in that loud morning light