some whom i have loved have been
as pitiless as winter rain.  but you
were never one of those--never
slid your eyes away because you were lying,
never, after the first time,
disappeared for long
under time's dormer.
but now i picture your face cleansed
of all emotion, forgetful of pain
as though after a terrible siege
of exhaustion  and i imagine
you have constructed a formal
and mechanical way of remembering me

if you remember me at all.

and i suppose this strategy is no worse
than dull habit or the convolutions
of smeared guilt.

those of us who died partially and live now
are resigned in the comfort of a small world.

unless we misstep one day and find ourselves
in the labyrinth of memory;
and then realize

that we are lost