The name of the author is the first to go <br />followed obediently by the title, the plot, <br />the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel <br />which suddenly becomes one you have never read, <br />never even heard of, <br /> <br />as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor <br />decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain, <br />to a little fishing village where there are no phones. <br /> <br />Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye <br />and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag, <br />and even now as you memorize the order of the planets, <br /> <br />something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps, <br />the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay. <br /> <br />Whatever it is you are struggling to remember, <br />it is not poised on the tip of your tongue, <br />not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen. <br /> <br />It has floated away down a dark mythological river <br />whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall, <br />well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those <br />who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle. <br /> <br />No wonder you rise in the middle of the night <br />to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war. <br />No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted <br />out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.<br /><br />Billy Collins<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/forgetfulness/
