The Same Clay

Mark Jarman

You have it in Oregon
where white lumber rolls up on
the beaches and agates are

pried by fingernail out of
the clay cliffs, that nothing here,
except under snow, is so

memorable. You are sure,
for we have assured you, that,
returning, we will forget

all but the first time we woke
to cities and fields of snow.
That was one morning. Others

before, when our one window
was stuck with leaves, or since, as
trees have begun to break out

and earth to split open, green,
are moments we've seen better
at home. As for forgetting,

the days here, less precious but
harder than agates, are lodged
in the same clay as our days

there, but firmer; each one we'd
rather forget is sunk deep
as pain, resisting all pressure,


maintaining its crystal edge.
Furthermore, when we return
we have no way of knowing

which of the great lengths of time
that have passed and will pass here
will, eventually, wash

into the lives we resume
there, bleached by amnesia,
gigantic, immoveable.