I chart the psyche, observing how I force myself to speak to you, imagining that together we might transform a life. Why this need to document change, to reverse a mood, to carry forward the time when magnolias bloom? Let’s follow the itinerant we up and over the jonquil's back, treading on its spilled bullion.
Every morning I let it all go.
Then it starts coming back,
sometimes blurred, sometimes
stuttering, sometimes suspended
on a linear dartboard that
I try to impale myself upon.
Even when the skylight is leaking,
I look for the peephole
that will ensnare my vision
of things: the boy sashaying
through the mud, the man shaving,
the mother scrubbing shoes
in the driveway. I want to say
that I feel too, that I remember,
and then I forget, and then I notice
that almost all the leaves are off the trees
and on the ground, save my three magnolias.