Old Story

Memory is the only mailman moving

in and out of the city. He yearns to break

seals, take photographs, and burn letters

for a sacred ritual. Never mind the smoke

as he keeps his hands from freezing—

he is both thief and retriever.

                                    *

Liz remembers meeting Viktor

in San Francisco. She grew tired

writing him letters. In City Lights

they read books they couldn’t buy.

But don’t mention he was stuck

in Houston, that the bookstore

was closed, or why she never

made it. Now he laughs at forever

alone memes, all the jokes

on him, still wondering

what was it? Folie à deux.

               

                                    *

What is the limit of memory?

A machine fails because it is faulty.

Data occupies space; a PC stores

up to 1TB of data, only it has a slow

processor, like the mind: a complex

organ with complex flaws; how

 could you completely forget?

It has since stopped

data recovery.

                                    *

The laws of synchronicity foretell

photographs taken with the same person

will be taken again—a superstition.

All the same. This is not the case for Viktor,

the twenty-something hipster who misses

the bus again because he stares

at subway graffiti and turnstiles

too long. He thinks: it is difficult to end

a force of habit, sent mails, sans replies.

                                    *

And the mailman remains.

Few walked out of the city

before it was engulfed in flames,

long before they saw the smoke.