Some nights
I don't want to seek the words
that summon me
as sirens to the rocks
of retrospection.

I can't hear
these whispers from the past,
undeniable naysayers
of time and age
and gravity.

These parts of speech
sightless yet prophetic as Tiresias
beckon me to build castles
with tinkertoy adverbs,
matchstick pronouns
till Babel's walls
are struck down
by the god of my memory.

Remembrance lures,
seduces and incites
unholy lust for wretched rewind
of embers best snuffed out.

I blow on yesterday's burns
and ice last year's bruises,
soak childhood's ache away
image by phrase by stanza.

What bandages and unguents
some nights,
these words.

-- E.H.