Typewriter Series #2061 by Tyler Knott Gregson
Text for Tired Eyes:
I remember things, out of order, the algorithm
off. I wonder sometimes, if there is freedom
in forgetting. I wonder if I am handcuffed
to this radiator of a mind. I see you,
barefoot on the green grass, but I do not know
the when, the where. I see me, pirate sword
and patched, and I know I went door to door.
Autumn came, as it did every year, and I
can feel the weight of cold descending.
I am a child, catching pop flys in the outfield,
six thousand fans filtering in for a seven o’clock
game, I do not notice them, I cannot hear
their sounds. Fourteen now, this is the first time
my lips have touched another’s lips,
I do not remember if I did it well. I remember
the softness, but not the shaking.
This was the moment of my birth, the white
lights and sounds of thunder beyond the window;
those were the stage lights, faces in shadow filling
seats out beyond me.
That was the stairwell you said you loved me,
perhaps that, was the moment of my birth.
I remember, things, out of order, and all
at once. -Tyler Knott Gregson-