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you wanted this one to be
pretty and gentle,
and it’s those
kinds of memories
you were harvesting
as you scooped the litter box
and emptied the trash-
balls of feline urine,
tiny turds,
and soggy onions.

the carousel slide projector
of the past doesn’t work properly
without regular use:
the rotary tray
gets jammed,
the fan overheats,
the images fade.

that night in the ocean
in mozambique,
poached with alcohol,
phosphorescence in the waves,
a star smeared sky.
you were all there,
individual participants
erased with time,

that dawn on the bridge
in angel’s camp,
the stench of the campfire
clinging to your reckless hair,
every color of the sunup
palette in use,
a rope around your ankles
your heart in your throat.

that random tuesday morning
you slept in late
skipping class
to wake up to the rolling fog
devouring mount sutro
and parnassus
like a ravenous serpent
until it arrives at you
sitting in its gapping maw.

you wanted this one to be
pretty and gentle?
all it takes is the time and effort
to plug in the carousel
and blow the dust
from the slides.