And it's awful to think the things I carry
Will be, on the other side, forgotten.
The failure of the word to hold memories
Drifting into separate distances
Of the dark
Like a broken ice sheet on a black river
Warming.

Yet I still try, out of fear
That a year will stumble over
January's step,
And bring with it the final death
Of a certain smoke-stamped afternoon,
Or a crooked smile, or a gaze
That once held love like a grail.

A word, a poem,
A noise that fits the locked door
Of eternities beyond the weight
Of dirt and blood.

One day the right key will come
Into my possession,
And the door will open wide.