Things begin with awakenings, today At dawn, six thirty, on one side of me A wall of books holding fort, the wall With a window on the other side.

You then surely must have attacked me From above, from the roof, descending From the sky, a black dive bomber.

These days on your hands, I see A holographic diorama of fucks. Perhaps the imagination of my memory is stronger than your memory of the past. And it’s memory that makes life such a bitch.

You know how to absolve memory In every new pelt that covers you, which you read and place inside of you, Till you become a library of congresses, Till you lose track of the number of those volumes.

I, however, polish all my memories into knives, which I carry on my back. I hunch under their weight. Such is the punishment for ignorance and such is the training to fight you as you tumble out of the sky to drop your bombs.