Do you remember the one
we met who stoked the sparks, tinder,
and letters into flaming embers
while we sipped a steaming tea?
In a blaze of fiery “fact”
the one explained that this is that and that is this,
and that that is logically saying this while also explaining that.
The one paused to meditate after the first monologue
we heard that night—what we thought we
heard, what at that time so amazed us.
And then the one relaunched discourse;
we were seemingly powerless in the face of the fervor,
never wondering if in the absence
of any other wisdom we were forgetting something….
I remember as we stared in silence
into the enflamed speech with its burning pinecones of sense,
we were entranced by the logic of the voice.
The tone was such that we were
beside ourselves with
every word while we sipped burning tea.
It was so long ago it hurts;
do you recall?
How many cups of tea did we drink that night?
Was it weak tea?
Finalizing another monologue, the one resolutely jabbed
the floor with a dull, heated poker
and we almost remembered we were forgetting something….
Now that I think of it,
I am fairly sure that we gazed like
stock still shadows into the swirling flames.
Why did we sit upon
those semi-explanatory words?
Who was the one?
What made the one’s words wise
In our interrogative red eyes?
I have so many questions.
Here we are, stoking the
embers of remembrance, of nostalgic fires, sensing
a memory of this and that of bygone days when
in the light of a fire we were momentarily forgetting something….
I know the wisdom that night was
a mortal wisdom staring us in our faces.
The one was indeed a wordy one,
with mixtures of madness
on the tip of the tongue,
stoking generalities into judgments.
And brushing these embers into wild sparks
the indescribable one adopted them into himself,
continually brushing in them in the dark
where we were losing something,
where we were forgetting something….
in the dark.
Do you remember that night,
Did we drink weak tea?
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