the workshop

Time renders sense into memory, and
destroys the evidence
for us, so that we
in our turn, can open up

loveliest nostalgia
unhindered by contradiction,
irritations sifted through,
forgotten, fallen away to sawdust, the sieve
retains what is beautiful

to build worlds within it
which we can never inhabit, but

flatter ourselves
that we could have, once.

As pastimes go, it's harmless enough
and understandable. There is a need,
as all around us, in life we see

little enough evidence
of what kind of present this now will be,

after memory takes its chance to work
using all of its skills and tricks,
and turning it into a gift:

Always and only yours,

belatedly