This is a point that's somewhat close to that I suppose
and in the theme.
It's a poem called Memory.
Some mornings I think I have come back from a long way
unfamiliar, hearing a language I must
have been speaking a moment ago before it was the rain.
But there is my chair, my room closed sagging, open book,
and table, the quiet presences gathered like relatives.
Now they will tell me again the story
they never tire of someone is lost in a forest,
he follows a trail of bread stooping to fill his sack.
The sack grows heavier and heavier.
He will never be hungry again.
Arriving wherever it is he arrives, what does it matter?
This is a story going on and on like pieces of bread.
I with my clapper of stone, my bell of cloudy water,
Yes I say Yes, putting on my clothes, my shoes,
lying as one does to the old.