If forgiveness was forbidden, nothing would be different.

Everything would age at the same rate. The end would still

be always in the mail and the river ice not thick enough to

cross at night to the other shore, full moon on ice in spite

of the fact that forgetfulness has been taken out and shot.

*

The relentless past.  Listen, let’s go for a ride somewhere

up, away from the river. The keys are wherever I lost them.

Blood hounds howling.    Did you ever let them catch you?

Just bring the bottle; leave the rest behind as evidence.

What is a life but a litany of chances to fuck up?