To the Muse of Forgetting

“Forgetting is the purest form of clarity.” --Someone And so ended the unquiet dreams awkward reunions with the dead wandering the halls of sleep, the bodies of others’ loss. Ghosts gone from the gazebo. No laments in the lowering sun. She woke. Blue sky blinked into her eyes. The room’s climate began to clear. The familiar path from bed to door curled into a stone staircase. When did that get there? There was writing on the wall near a waterfall. She climbed. She soared. She leant a myth to god. She stood in a garden with five black stones. She foretold an eclipse, Burned the witch of winter, Stepped in the same river twice. The moon shrank into the alarm clock’s face. Her breath brewed clouds above her forehead. She sat aloof in the empty air, Alone in the immense morning, At rest in clear, cold perfection.

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