Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Wednesday, October 28, 2009: Notcot #25822


Locked into a safe,
a box with a latch and a lock.

The lid remains closed,
the latch snapped, sealed.

What of the glittering thing
in the dark chamber--

what is it like
in that crate, no air,

no light. Safe, we call it,
from rougher hands,

from the calendar flipping
fast as a bicycle's spokes.


  1. Marvelous poem. Are you publishing somewhere?

  2. Beautiful! I just heard a wonderful podcast on WNYC's radiolab (I think you'd LOVE it)--
    and your poem has nestled down next to my thoughts about their piece on memory.

    Apparently, there is some speculation by those who research human memory that every time we revisit the memory, we actually change it. The safest memory is the one we cannot touch. Rough hands indeed.



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