Most live lives of half-remembering;
They blur through days of flaring thought
Then fall asleep with less than everything
They’ve learned. A rolling death. A burning-out.
But not me. What burns the brightest
Won’t blaze away. I am animate with facts.
How far from Montreal to Winnipeg. Full list
Of Aintree mares. The origin of Devil’s Flax.
My mind should feel too full, a sticky nest
Of spiderlings all struggling to live.
I will admit, it does at times. I gaze,
As we all do, at that better place
Where, like water through a sieve,
I’ll shed the swollen years, the heaving days.