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 He wrote Forgetfulness
and I know he knew what he wrote;
that gray mist that sneaks in sometimes,
the names that escape, the dreams
near forgotten.  He is intimate with them.

I walk the mica sparked rim of mountains
so tall I think I can touch the clouds,
like wraiths they fade when I reach for them
and the gray mist sneaks in. I have not
forgotten the feel of stone or the taste

of thin air but, still, I am chasing the wind,
knowing I can’t catch it and if I could, knowing
I wouldn’t know what to do with it,
It would be like holding the sea in a tea cup
and mourning its small horizon.

I will write of what can’t be touched,
for I am intimate with it, No matter how deep
into forgetfulness I sink, I shall never forget
the time I reached for the sun and came so close
 it almost burned my hand.

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