Trying to Remember by Steve Klepetar

I am trying to remember your eyes
but they are shut, their dark gleam
pulsing behind boards.

I am trying to remember your voice.
“Don’t tell us about rain
in the trees,” it said, so I kept

silent even in the cold as green
buds popped from dark branches.
So many faces to lose, spilling

from a broken bag, so many climbers
stuck on ledges, slippery and thin,
with fingers dug  into rock, so many

eyes rolling on the wooden floor.
“Look past the light,” they said, but
I started to fade.  “Tell us about sunset,”

but all I could see was a golden band.
When the music stopped, I found the only
chair, but when I hurled myself down

in its spiny embrace, the legs gave way.
I tumbled hard, found myself surrounded
by splinters and shards in the stage lights’ glare.