Title Request #13

Returning. From a place
or to it. To the library,
Jokes and Their Relation
To The Unconscious.
A favor. A warm kiss.
A good for an evil. Ill-fitting
sweaters. The mind,
reading and not, until
a page goes by, and you remember
nothing of it, not even
a word, and you return
to where you remember
and train the eyes
on new old words you've
seen before--returning
to the last thing
you remember, seconds
forfeited, and this
goes on. And yet, you're
different again, different
now than you were
only moments ago. Like
the return key, returning
only takes you
to the next line: a similar
place, yet foreign, a blankness
ahead, and time. Into
the company of it
we all return, dazed
from the trip, searching
for landmarks, and finding
only the place where
the ash tree once stood,
sitting on the stump, and think
of all we've lost, the onerous
desire to return to it
even when nothing's there.