Going, Going

Our memories are tangled, tightly woven clots of
life's miscellaneous castouts.
In our waking lives, we find no use for them, so
only when the whipstitched order of daylight
begins to fade do they dare creep along
over our blankets and pillows and tie themselves
securely into our sleeping brains
taking on the cloak and emblems of dreams,
resting the laurel crown on their balding heads
(perhaps to cover some weakness brought on
by time)
and dragging us, as quickly as they can,
away from the mind-numbing darkness of
a hungover Sunday morning and back into
the closet days, when all was bright.
They persist until the first buzzing of the alarm,
dispelling any halfhearted enchantment
they may have cast, our former selves'
last offer at a chance for
salvation.

-April 3, 2009

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