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memory is fiction.
soft-hearted echos,
indulgent mementos,
kept in envelopes
kept in folders
kept in boxes
in closets,
fettered to
repetitive recollections
that make the faded past
indelible.
bearable.
real.

that happened:
the stories
keep you apprised,
filling in the blanks
with manufactured
tracts of reality,
like reliable
rumour.
testimony.
confession.

there are not too many things
more meagre than language,
trying to reveal
this self:
inside and out.