Fool. You used to think a blushing arm that bent
round you in bed, that would extend to you
across a room still crowded with the breath
of friends and pet the dizzy hair above
your party talk-drunk head, could help defend
or even wave away the tiny mess
of rainclouds and the odd, slush-stained galoshes
from the snow globe in your chest. But you
were being young then. Tonight, you brush
the crumbs of birthday cake away from where
you baked it and it sat. Tonight, you get
undressed, and read a bit in bed, and stretch
out into emptiness. You have nothing
to remember. You have no one to forget.