In Which the Poet Naps in a Garden

The catalog of forms gnaws
at me in inessential melancholy,
praising postcard cities over the present.
Why do you do this, catching what memories
are erased in words by surprise as if you haven’t
already lost them? Or is it that as you sway
cocooned in a hammock you do not think them,
conjecturing that memories do not exist outside
an indivisible existence galloping out a network,
the Los Angeles of remembering?

                                  There’s more
anguish now, with no outside to pass through
and take your leave, the rumbling wheels and howling
wolves rolling end upon end together.

-C.S. Henderson