by Gary Hardaway

I write to remember
things needed from the grocery,
plans for the disposition of time,
what about experience matters
to the mind, remembering.

I write to remember
in the language of lips and ears
what pictures speak in the language of eyes.

I write to frame and film with words
scenes from  the theater of imagination.

I write so that stark symbols
scratched across a scrap of paper
or tapped across a screen
can vivify the patterns
particles and waves make
falling and bouncing inside
the bone-bound hall
of my being and recollection.

I write to make visible my small
assertions against impermanence.

But, mostly, I write to remember
all that I choose to remember.