Fall 1994

Longing is the memory
we
do
not have
but search for.

Somewhere
you pass the place
where the memory
was
supposed
to be
as if
caught in a current
you pass your landing on the river
or
on the wrong train
you see your station rush past you.

And
what was expected
receded
into the distance
so quickly
you only saw it with
your
peripheral vision.

Like a movement behind you in the forest
leaving only rustling leave.
You can't remember its
color
or its
texture
or its smell.

Longing is the memory
we
do
not have
but search for.

The past you
never had
kept in a locket
with
no picture.

Your future gone off to war
like a chaste lover
who
did not
return.