OF OWN ACCORD
Only for a moment did I forget
that it’s now. My station of honest memory.
Hiatus of moments worn like satin.
Mistaken leads followed. Of own accord. You can
miss scabs, the grazing of cuticles.
The patina of silvery blood. Let’s revisit those
Conversations. The stucco of dried branches, leaves
of flint. These etchings, left over from childhood.
