Analepsis

And if   we were to go down
       that lane again,
where the sheltered streets
       call out your name—

what is memory   but loss
turned upside down—
looking for the lever
to turn the page.

Do not think I could forget,

make numb the cuts
       the scalpel made,
or reach a stage
       where the blinking fireflies
do not speak of things
       best left unsaid.