Available Light
       

The solace of amnesia must be that one
Lives in the present, concerns oneself
With weather, and not weather patterns.

There must have been years of plenty
When the clutter gathered in drawers,
Hope chests, corners, attics, and cellars.

For now, wallpaper unfolds at the seams.
Memory—inconclusive, elliptical—
Is a shrine of sorts, a quiet aftermath.

The past, like fire, assumes mutable shapes.
One makes do with available light.
A needle is threaded; a table is cleared.

Again delayed, one awaits a forthcoming
Rapture. The thread frays. The needle rusts.

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Copyright © 2020 Eric Pankey All rights reserved
from Bennington Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission