Memory

I used to enjoy remembering things.
When I could remember things I would
use my memory in such a way
as to conjure up stuff in my living room.
The dust on the bookshelves
is really our skin mingling amid those
stacks of things, so you are over there.
We’re sort of hanging out
with the dust from us.
It is Thursday,
my bills are due.
Brooklyn is waking up.
Somewhere you are walking across
Court Street or simply cradling
a cup in your lap.
You could be doing anything
and I'd still be trying to remember something.