my memory’s a brothel he said
remembering a fog of lust.
how time clips wings and crushes
the ash of a flash to even finer dust.
in his memory’s sink The Pool of Recall
which is often troubled by any new breeze,
he could never see the forest or the trees
but just beneath his gaze was trouble,
thought Narcissus, who saw that it was he himself
in ripples, waves and particles of desiccated leaves,
thought he who could not put a mind or finger on
the length of echoes burnt love leaves
by Jim Culleny