City of Memory 

In pictures it looks like something we’ve seen before, it’s not that different from the solid state except for the lacy edges.  Turning around or turning back, as if we’re sewing up the holes in our pockets, not taking anything out like an album in a drawer—when you don’t know what you’re leaving out is it worth finding out?  The light stays in the interior of the beam, like the story of the light, or the page it’s written on, the walls are soft enough to stick things into.  Parking isn’t a problem.  When we need to do something it’s often because of something else we’ve done or something that happened to us, as if the difference between what it was and what it is is just what we want it to be.  Cupping our hands as if they’re starting to leak, reminding ourselves to back everything up—if something’s in the way it’s probably because there isn’t any other place for it. We often think there isn’t anything that hasn’t already happened—I believe Kierkegaard knew what he was talking about when he said life is only known backwards, as if we need to keep turning around in order to find out where we’re going, honestly I don’t think we don’t remember enough to be forgetful.  Not putting anything down that we need to pick up later on.  Nothing is plowed under or evicted, we still have soft spots, when there’s nobody in front of you you turn around and hold onto the person behind you, letting your chins touch, opening your mouth and pressing your lips together:  under the tongue it’s always the same temperature.

Peter Leight’s poems have appeared in Paris Review, AGNI, FIELD, Beloit Poetry Review, Raritan, Matter, and other magazines.