Sing my song of forgetting,
Of lips never wrong, never upsetting,
Sing the wine-infused air along,
From the violin’s grapevine song,
Purely gifted as the altar wine and alms
Of the Santa Maria della Visitazione,
A cadenza from the catgut of stringed waves,
     The vibrato in polyphonic staves across the lagoon,
          Amid the psaltery sway of submerged algae plumes,
               Like the strident tails of the horses of Neptune,
Or the teardrop-surge of the glass chandeliers of Murano,
The same powdered hue of Venetian sky,
As bluebirds fallen into their own drowned tune,  
As absence awash over the sun-scattered tombs of Olympus.

Sing with a felt-tipped tongue,
So my song of forgetting is never undone.

Words are worn out
till we repolish
to repeat anew.

Saturday after Memorial day,
at the third star, meme

Any ancestor visited
over the holiday, they say,
during the holy day phazem

sayemshakem

thankenthinkentaken
artificial sacred making effect,
are the peacemakers affections

lightfoot tendency to take luck
as good as grace, to live under
as go'ds message receptors formed

from all my nations reasons for liking
Ike and ****, the world's greatest ever
reasons to hate the enemy, most certain,

the law, the charters, since the days
of Rome, nay, farther, since the days
of the written law of fixed intention,

lets us pray aliegiance, under the law
of god, despite the irreal logic of law,

after truth is taken as the key, knowing
we all need to know, all minds made once,
and set aside to try another. Pride knowing,

puffing up the pose, supposed to convey,
ferry, carry across this river, twice,

once for tomorrow, once
just for today.