/ literati:

“when i was your age, television was called books!”—Peter Faulk, The Princess Bride

Looking for Snodgrass

W.D. Snodgrass

An unnervingly familiar recount of a wandering mind that looks but cannot find:

Looking
by W.D. Snodgrass

What was I looking for today?
All that poking under the rugs,
Peering under the lamps and chairs,
Or going from room to room that way,
Forever up and down the stairs
Like someone stupid with sleep or drugs.

Everywhere I was, was wrong.
I started turning the drawers out, then
I was staring in at the icebox door
Wondering if I’d been there long
Wondering what I was looking for.
Later on, I think I went back again.

Where did the rest of the time go?
Was I down cellar? I can’t recall
Finding the light switch, or the last
Place I’ve had it, or how I’d know
I didn’t look at it and go past.
Or whether it’s what I want, at all.

Grief has a way of stealing your memory. In response:

Looking
by M.C

Looking
I saw the calendar has passed three weeks, like wind
I’ve been flying better, better still
better living still through chemistry

I see my books are off the racks again, birds uncaged
Swooping back I peck at Snodgrass’ verse on memory

I see how close it all still is, like thugs
Mugging bright thoughts down dark alleys
I see how veiled it all remains, like smoke
Suffocating vivid thoughts to whispers

Looking
I saw how lost I still may be
In this addled high fake energy


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