Harry Soot is that kind of guy. Despite
his lust for
lime, despite a savvy sense of
what goes down around such light, Harry
Soot is attached to his memory lines,
crow’s feet crinkle, scar arroyos, worry
furrows, wry sag, time written in skin,
in bone, in blood. Chemical peels do not
appeal to him. Nor implant chips (wait
until he gets sick!).

               Sand’s unbelievable memory
               learned, of course,
               not lived.
“Treads,” by Myrrh