Think of the doorway
leading to the house—
the brass knocker,
the two ornamentals
by the steps. Think
of the bay windows
that looked out over
the drive; upstairs
the room without
curtains, with only
a bed, a chair, a desk.
What was the name
of the tree in whose
branches night herons
came to roost; the name
of the river, and the boat
the neighbors tethered
at the pier? Who fell
from the mast one New
Year Eve stringing
lights? There’s a haze
some days over the water
and the scene dissolves.
Today it’s Tuesday
and almost summer.
Yesterday you tried
to remember a dream.
Tomorrow you’ll wake
and hope to recognize
whose hand you hold,
where you parked the car
before you got here.