it comes at me sometimes in snatches
a song drifting in the air
the air across my skin – exquisite
a scent so fine it makes me stop
when i’m on my bicycle say
wending through the belchblack traffic
and life drapes loose about my shoulders
loose enough, slight enough that i forget it’s there
it’s then these pieces come
each one part of a puzzle
so familiar it’s written on my bones
but I have lost the box with the picture on it
and i’m tired now and can’t remember
but it comes at me, sometimes, in snatches
fragments of remembering
says kindly: and this one, and this one too, remember?
like last night’s dream i can’t quite complete it
the picture of my life

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