THROB OF MEMORY
but dwelt beyond,
memorizing yellowing photographs
from another lifetime,
drawing the rod of imagination,
sliced deep into his distended passions,
peeling each rotting layer away -
The sandpaper touch
of gnarled finger-tip
permitted, in whimsical fantasy
this bittersweet glimpse
into hour-glass absences.
Never the witness.
Always the messenger.
Bleeding for that prenatal nostalgia
extended to second-hand experience
shopworn and ruddy
only in thumbnail sketches
and the thrash of memory –
on to the golden throb
into his present day consciousness.