Someone playing flute, the music coming from
an open second-floor window,
sky overcast, and we’re in front
of a mulberry tree,
its leaves wet. I need to memorize
the kind of tree it is, a way
of hanging on to this moment.
It’ll be on a test, the one in which I’m likely
to forget what the tree’s called and so
start to lose my connection to the memory, maybe
to memory altogether,
the first loose thread unraveling.
Flute music woven through the branches
and our conversation.
I wonder who even plays flute anymore
but I’m grateful. Love will be
on the test too, or is it the test itself? Love
when the answers
aren’t easy. Love when it’s not all new.
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