you say you forget little from love.

i know too much. the passion of proximity, the senselessness of sensibility. i dive into the sea of unseeing and lose myself in lethargy.

yet i abandon my memories.
my hands are wet from the river of forgetfulness
where the old woman meng po bid me drink
when i fell into hell,
for you, you who set me aflame and left me burning, i
to who’ve you seen out of apathy.
none wonder about fire.

forward, i
walk on this ashy road, my
lonely back, the icy abyss.
i know too much. my passion, my senselessness, my lethargy. i reach forward for greater heights knowing there is glory in failure. the sun is a sensate pulse
or could fall short.

think this of creation; fire
is neither terrible
or terrific.