The season of memory is finished. Stones are piled
Around the mind like in a ritual. Though it was never in
Question, you were the last to leave, cutting away my
Eyelids like roses while I slept. Nothing is permanent but the
Anticipatory shock of change. Afraid of amnesty and
The future, of the colorless vowels which rain from speech,
You are immune only to what will never be known—and
Yet aware of what is not.