In the afterlife, our old recall
Sharp snap of salted scallions
And pebbly kick of crunching cucumbers.
The young dwell on fucks like fables.
Friend, foe, hole up in stories,
Pale faces haunting like light
Hinting through a keyhole.
Past's a habit to be broken,
Yet nobody's ready for the great forgetting,
Mesmerized still by the marvel of hurt
That made us men.