Here’s what I’m good at

When you’re around,
marinating in you

When you’re not,
remembering

Nostalgia is reflex, a spasm
of cortical muscle

But this remembering isn’t habit
    or even sentiment

This remembering
is a slumbering

allowing main text to drift
into marginalia
weekday into holiday

inhaling you
as rumour
as legend

and suddenly as thing —

superbly
        empirical —

with your very own
   local scent

of infinity

Let me follow river currents
warm with sun
the ambling storylines 

of green lotus stems
and wooden boats

Let me be that tangle of moonbeam 
and plankton

on a journey too pointless
to be pilgrimage —

floating jamming
                just jetsamming

Remembering isn’t an art
more an instinct

a knowing that there is

nothing limited
about body

nothing piecemeal
about detail

nothing at all
                secondhand
aboutremembering