do not attempt to revive old pleasures. the dead
always come back wrong. memory is fickle, romantic,
and a liar. the poet skips arm in arm with it, feeds
its hearth, encourages the crackle and spit. then arrives
at his own childhood doorstep and finds new vignettes
on the mantel, new rusted necklaces in the jewelry box,
new toy blocks scattered across the floor like divinatory
constellations. his stains washed, his mistakes bleached,
his mark smoothed over and reupholstered.

wrench yourself from that hooked elbow before
you barge into the new age with its new sentiments
and all dismissal.

board the train away before you find yourself a stranger
in the house of those who told you never to become one.