In the open maw of memory Where things stand, blurred by rain, The glare of sun, and the glaze Of retrieval, we sit, retelling Stories (which we have told To others, some of whom were Only us, masked and changed By time) as if knowing what lies Behind us will tell us something Of what lies beyond, as if the triumphs And betrayals of sex and love read Right would enable us to divine, From the tarot cards laid on day's table, The true weight of the body And the weightlessness of love.