Memory istheemptysockonthefloorthatstillholds theshapeofthefoot.It’sathinstrip oftheentirepicture,shreddedbytheeyes’sense ofevent,themindlikeDanRatheronlocation onthemoon,aplacewithcomparativelylittle gravityyetclichédandthus,likeSwisscheese, fullofholes.Thisbusinessofthinkingback toapointintimeislikewritingapoemthat citesanotherpoem.Dobynsdoesit—aman explainstohiswifethattheStevensline, Letbebefinaleofseem,meanswhatexistsis moreimportantthanwhatseemstoexist. Justgoestoshowhowdifficultitistoexplain theessentiallyevocative.WhatIwanttodo isuptheante—writeapoemthatquotesapoem thatquotesapoem.Becausethat’sexactly theproblemwithmemory.It’slikethosenesting matryoshkadolls,thefeaturesofthesmallest sodiminutivewhoknowswhattheyreallylooklike? Justasemblanceofthereal,likeMountRushmore. Notreallyflesh,buthardandcraggy,andmuch muchbiggerthanreallife,andbiggerisbetter, right?Theproblemisthattruth—readthatmemory— isalwaysintensionwithasolublefish.Yes, likeSimic,Ibelieveinit—flux,notfinale— everythingontheedgeofbecoming,ready toslipintosomethingelse.Notlike dollsinsidedollsinsidedollsbutchildren holdingaflashlightunderacolander, castingstarsintoadarkenedroom,eachmoment, eachbreath,airinawindsock,spillingout. ...