Not a postcard with a steam clock on it,
not a Hudson’s Bay blanket, white wool
with stripes of green, red, yellow, indigo.
If you bought a magnet with the ocean,
mountains, silvery buildings and a bridge,
then what, you would have another magnet.
Memory loosens, stretched out like an
old sweater that anticipates how the body
will fill it. What was the name of that bar,
no one remembers, no one will ever tell
you, and your life goes on unengulfed
by fire and dozens of sinkholes.