all day as I walk
I practice the art
of forgetting—
which means all day I remember
what I wish to forget
*
that rock
I’ve been carrying—
every time I put it down
I find it again
in my other pocket
*
these thoughts
wear the strangest shoes—
no heel, no toe,
trying to track them
I see they go both ways at once
*
caught in a tunnel
with a fire at both ends—
now would be
a perfect time
to learn to dig
*
in the end
there is no rock, no shoes,
no tunnel no fire—
there is only the art
of loving the one who remembers
The first one is my favorite, so you have placed it for me in the perfect place, up front. And I think the end deepens the first one, inferences what has been on your mind. Mischief, indeed.