They’re not all gone, you know.

They come in flash floods, from across the world
with poor infrastructure
and the smell of open drains

and freeze, instantly in subzero Toronto,
me to a moment; they nail my neck
to some January night, mid
winter, twice maybe a week.

“Do you need your receipt?”

I wonder if the cashier can see
where my tongue meets
the styloglossus at the back
of my throat, twitching as this time dart icicle
pierces the tissues: it looks like a pen, I want to say, helpfully.
There is a stylus in your skull,  a pen made of bone holding a muscle
which moves your tongue, and isn’t that poetic and perfect?

Shouldn’t that be enough?

“Yes, I do. It’s good to keep track of things.” I say, quietly.

– Good Memories

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