Remembering Faces
By Richard Dinges Jr.

I do not fear forgetting

names.  They never meant

much to me.  My father

wrote and carved his name

in all his possessions.

I imagine he was one

of those boys who wrote

his name in snow with

a yellow stream.  I still

run into it now and then,

although the snow has

long since melted.  I do

miss faces, some fading

already into that dark corner,

wrapped in shadows, where

I hear faint breathing, yet

see only a blurred outline

that looks the other way.

I try to carve them all

in relief, stow them in

separate pockets, pull each

out to study in quiet moments,

but even my pockets have

holes in them, and I

can only look back over

a long trail of scattered

faces receding into the distance.