Great Holes of Forgetting

There are huge

places of forgetting –

not only in our lives,

but in the vast

fabric of all that

is – in the crenulations

of the universe herself.

A lingering knowledge

that we have more

to say; a pause to bring

forth something long ago

tucked away in the flash of

an instant, the passing

of the moment.  These

black holes of human

consciousness stand in

their own depths

immeasurable and unfathomable

to that simple speck

of awareness – that

point in time and space

that knows it is a knowing.

How we threw the ball

on the front lawn, how we

played cards in the fort outback;

walking the streams in the

early morning mist looking

for furs to sell for cash –

these are the fragments

that flow in a backwash

from my soul.

But,

just beyond the river

of things remembered

are segments of a life

that fade out of view

into a black hole of

insurmountable size.

There is no longing that

calls them forth from the

depths of forgetting and

gives them to see

the light outside the pit

of frozen synapses.

I long to lay aside

the frustrated muscle of

searching through the

ebb and flow of all I

have known and known I know.

I beckon them to come

to me – to make a

singular showing so

I can turn the motor of

memory off; or, at least

let it idle melodically at

a low-grade hum

of steady remembrance.

There is no letting

go of the desire to tug

at impressions against the

constant, endless, relentless

pull of gravity.

This anomaly of the astronomy

of our lives may be a theorem

of probability, an equation

of the science of space and

time, but in my self

there is no doubt

about its elusive

placement, just outside

the limits of my

perception and ken.

O lonely movement

of discovery, give back to me

the things I know to have

known.  O chasm of neural

space and time, shake loose

the things that were my

meaning then – and give

me rest.

Release the wrenching

of this un-circumscribable

singularity against my ability to

hold tight the dear, lost

pieces of my me.

All that steadies

the who of who

I am – living into

the expansion of all

that it wrestles against

the apparent entropy

of this event horizon

of my own being.

image by www.spacetelescope.org