Its hard to remember 
not to step on the dry sidewalk,
to step only on the dark rain stains,
to tell you about the book in the window, 
or the scurvy old sea dog with the pipe, 
(he didnt really have a pipe but I imagined
that he had one, a gnarled old black one), 
its hard to remember anything, really.

I have kept four notebooks so far
in taking notes on what I think of, what
I must not forget, since January 18th.
One day on the ship, I will show you
all the things that I had to write down 
in order to remember them, because 
I had so many of your wild clouds in my head,
too many of your crazy words, your eyes.





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