To live without memory is to have each hour
as a pane of air for canvas and the view from a window
to paint: amber-honey cold mornings:
humbled by evening: variation and variation
of ambiguous figments—ziggurat beehive
auroras—flicker and go out:: All history
may as well be in these brushstrokes:
the hand has not rested nor the paint dried.
Before they pull curtains to the sill. . .
Mother show us if you know what radiance
remains: river: your river beneath glacial stone.