Somewhere There’s Another Universe, Heaped with Broken Branches

Memory’s made by pruning
Synapses like bonsai trees,

Report neuroscientists,
Which seems at first surprising—

Memory should be adding.
Yet think hard about your past,

About the past, the whole past.
No thing can undo itself,

No happening’s unhappened,
But there’s always something new,

And each time, to make more room,
Something has to be removed.

That still happened. That synapse
Existed. But you missed it.