Archetype of Memory

The trees           are wet            and so the world

seems to shudder          with silence            taking

on a new name.          This is an image          of sadness

old as stone.          But I believe             this is the way you

cook vinegar           out of the room;          this is what stars

find under their beds          when mother          steps out.

This rain is polish          that slows          down day like an old dog

tumbling toward a toy.         You can find me in it           always a little

hungry,          sometimes thinking         about a herd of beasts

trotting through muck          to slaughter.          None of us sees

wounds          that have always been there          and I see

inside me,          even now,          none marbling.