Things that are Hard to Forget

You wanted to forget what came before,
        and for some time, you do: the falling-apart-year, 
the year thieves broke into your unfinished house 
       during a storm; the earthquake year, the year of 
burying. Then, years of constant traveling, years 
       of letting yourself into the house past midnight 
while others slept, oblivious to your arrival. You  
       wanted to forget—only another way of saying   
you remember everything. Sometimes, with other 
       passengers, you took your luggage out of the hold 
and all of you sat huddled on the side of the highway, 
       waiting for another bus to come along. You can still  
see the clear, dark sky, the crescent moon suspended like
       a feather;  your figure, smudged and distant at the end  
of a scope you look through from where you sit tonight.