Trismegistus

For some strange reason you find
It feels good, at the moment,
To be short of breath. You haul

On your lungs like a sailor
Lifting canvas sail alone,
And it feels good, feels profound,

Although it can’t possibly
Carry good Implications.
Tristram, you say to yourself,

For no reason other than
Liking the feel of the word.
Tristram, and you remember

The black page in your fingers,
How a little of the ink
Rubbed off on your fingertips.

You take another deep breath,
Like someone about to do
Something difficult, and then

You watch the sun on your hands,
Decades now, decades after
They were ink-stained with Tristram.

The whole gift of memory
Is for experiences
To exist that don’t exist.