stillness into the shape of hills, there is
a cabin feeding smoke to the low-hanging sky,
and I am the man hungering inside.
Aware no human theme outlasts itself,
I toss a log on the fire and turn back
co my task of forgetting. I hunger to forget.
Some such dome of scars, the emptiness beyond—
with these I do not bother. I forget universes
and all that ever seemed to exist. I do this
until there is nothing left to forget,
nothing to remember, no one there
secs a kettle on the stove and continues
the idea of his life.
