Memory takes us for a ride, and we it –

Time clocks its vengeance on forgetfulness;

When the god Remembrance comes calling

(Old Eros in a mask) we repossess
In vain the confabulated latitudes

For our retelling, now tainted and digital;

Far below the long-relinquished Equator

Our analog histories in the original
Lie in dust like Alexandrian manuscripts

Or sunk, an irretrievable Atlantis;

So we puzzle over what preceded Genesis

As we wait for Revelation to supplant us.
And so history is our cross and our salvation,

We genuflect before its stations, cosily;

From the first sad Romulus to the last

A hundred dozen winters weave a rosary
We can say in one chart or chapter,

And we joy ourselves then, or else we cry;

And we fix memory’s shingle to our future –

We will miss ourselves when we die.