Tin Lungs of the Forest

Thick clouds, dull and dark as tin,
Close back in again, begin
To rinse a dense blue morning.

Think of everything living
In this dream’s vicinity,
The dim surroundings breathing

In and exhaling thousands
Of sips of thin existence,
And think of things forgotten,

The experiences lived
Within reach of where you sit,
Things found out to sink again.

Is this it, what is is gone
And haunted? There’s no absence
Like the sense of forgetting,

The presence of forgetting
In the denseness of what’s still
Breathing, dull and dark as tin.