I have forgotten how to speak in poetry.
I have forgotten the rhythm and the rhyme
and the cadence that sings from the wings
of emerald flies.
I have forgotten the feel of cool paper
slipping through my fingers
like copper coins and blades of grass.
I have forgotten the song, how to sing,
how to speak so that my heart
melts into words like jam into hot toast.
I can only write down amnesia,
my regret, my forgetting.
Goddamn it, what do they say
about riding a bike?