Especially. In the movies, when one begins
To remember, often as not the ominous
Music comes on, as it should. Memories
Can never be trusted or shared, but we fade
To nothing without them. They’re the angels
We all talk about, trumpeters and fallen,
Spirits athwart our paths in the night,
Messengers telling us who we should serve,
What we’ve done wrong, what will become
Of us, of the world beyond us, who we are.
They wrestle us, disable us, rename us.
They descend invisibly to stand on pins.
They cling like rimes of frost to every twig.
I stood in the thick, milky swirl of an ice fog
Tonight, one that draped the spindly trees
And carpeted a half-empty parking lot
Outside the emptier cinema of ghostly lights,
Blurring reds and oranges through white
Haze, and I recalled similar solitary winter
Inversions fifteen, twenty, thirty years ago,
Each one an unhealthy haunting I half-liked,
In Salt Lake and Missoula and elsewhere,
In these bowl-shaped valleys where cold air,
Wood smoke, car exhaust, and recollections
Collect and settle. Jeder Erinnerung ist shrecklich.
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