6: To catch falling brain matter ....
Photo memories, flashes, pictures taken staining
consciousness, unchanging as mountains -- unless
old age robs even that terrible thing away, a gift from its pain.
Henderson died last week, a form notice in the mail
saying nothing, even between lines; but he used to boast
with highest marks that there was nothing forgot, all attic-
scented in his brain waiting to come out fresh, new,
smelling of lavender.
We are great in that we live if we
do not die; to edit the world into us as the hero, fight reality,
but for those without deception-as-weapon, it must be
cold nights, triggered memories that never fade, and
every falling star a wound to a heart thought broken so long ago.
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