I am old and nothing brings me joy.

I did
good things
but I
was asked.

drunk
outside
of a dog
shelter
I am likely
to remember
a library
pyros
love.

my uncle
he is probably
still
west of me
able

to open
a bottle
with the mouth
of a living
frog.

Hard to say
where it begins.
A snowflake,
a step,
a voice...
too soft,
too small
for most
to notice.
One memory
cascades gently into
another, tumbling visions,
recherches du temps passe.
Gaining mass and momentum,
they still look beautiful and innocuous
from a distance, until you observe the trees
and boulders swept up into the blinding current

and it's upon you

and it fills your eyes your lungs
with suffocating whiteness
tossed about head over elbow
muffled tears on the desk

and if you're lucky

when the onslaught stops
you can dig out an air pocket
take a breath
burrow to the surface
and go on with your day.