of him. And whether I took a pill this morning.
How to argue. Forgot the little room. The
old yellow Ford pick-up (a smoked-up truck).
Forgot the motorcycle wreck, the sanding down
of the palm of the hand. Forgot cellphones.
Forgot the living wage law. Forgot infinity
and all of its bodies, their hands and faces.
Forgot the bus. Maroon. Woven baskets.
Forgot how he fit into the curl of my arms
as I entered. Forgot breaking loose.
