WEBVTT

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This is a point that's somewhat
close to that I suppose

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and in the theme.

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It's a poem called Memory.

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Some mornings I think I have
come back from a long way

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unfamiliar, hearing
a language I must

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have been speaking a moment
ago before it was the rain.

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But there is my chair, my room
closed sagging, open book,

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and table, the quiet presences
gathered like relatives.

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Now they will tell
me again the story

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they never tire of someone
is lost in a forest,

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he follows a trail of bread
stooping to fill his sack.

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The sack grows
heavier and heavier.

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He will never be hungry again.

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Arriving wherever it is he
arrives, what does it matter?

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This is a story going on
and on like pieces of bread.

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I with my clapper of stone,
my bell of cloudy water,

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Yes I say Yes, putting
on my clothes, my shoes,

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lying as one does to the old.

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