Self-Portrait as Forgetting
In the sketchbook marriage
apologies never come to diminish
the catalog of bone.
Instead our chipped teacups
are steeped to coal.
Topaz ghosts won’t stay behind
in their gauzed rooms.
I go where I can press my feet
to the grainy sand
where a light mist bracelets mistakes
and shimmies the boundless water
that blue-thirsts for me—
(or have I just imagined being remembered?)
my smallness rhythmed
against sea-song’s infinite loop
the circle-winged skirts insisting
I am at the forgetting precipice
and won’t hold back.