Staring out into the spangled dark from behind
A shield of glass against the heat, while
The central air conditioning ran constantly
And the Earth spun through the tail of Perseids,
A man known for the detail of his memory
When it came to jotting down dates and numbers
Was coming to terms with the realization
That either he had just spotted something
Like a shooting star, a quick hitch in the program
Of the universe, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it
Little glitch, or he was lost. For weeks he’d been
Repeating his change of address. He had distinct
Memories of discussing number six-oh-eight
With the property manager, of putting it into
A book order as the address where to send
The books, of texting a friend and a relative
Unit six-oh-eight. He had seen it in emails.
He was as sure of the trail of text and texts
He'd left as he was of anything. Then he arrived,
And they handed him the keys to six-one-eight.
He protested the mistake. There was another
Number on the lease, in the emails, etc.
But there wasn’t. Every six-oh-eight he knew
He’d seen or written or checked was six-one
Not six-oh. Even the texts he had sent,
The forwarding address he’d given. Either
Reality had changed retrospectively, or,
Almost as frighteningly, he had not only
Forgotten, not merely forgotten or made
A mistake, he had written the mistake
Retroactively over all his own memories.
The number he remembered putting down
And seeing everywhere was never there.
Had he caught a glimpse of the universe
Gaslighting him? Every thought was a riddle.
He watched through the window of six-one
As the desert night sulked. Six-oh. Had he detected
Something telling? Had he been infected
By his own peculiar variant of dementia?
How many strawberries grow in the salt sea?
How many ships sail through the forest?
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