Why the cerebrum is severely

folded. A map so mutable

we are unable to name it.

Can you recall what happens

next? If it is true that forgetting

has not been proved, then the smell

of lamb roasting in the oven is

my grandmother’s San Francisco

apartment in 1954. The dead

persist in remembering

Thursday. The old dog, blind

in one eye, descends the stair

backwards. Not everyone

hears what is seen. Spilt milk

could just be the beginning of

redemption. One closet full of

brooms, another of dead birds.

To maintain the lucid dream,

move always in an upward

direction. There is nothing

that is not metaphor.

 

Dan Lewis lives on the edge of the Patch Reservoir in Worcester, MA. Winner of the 2012 Frank O’Hara Prize, he is the author of two chapbooks, Tickets for the Broken Year,  and Iconospheres, as well as a full-length poetry collection, This Garden. His work has appeared in The Cortland Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, Bombay Gin, Diner, Blue Unicorn, and others.