New Note

New Note
 
Going through the notes
on my phone feels like reading
bad cut-up poems, half-formed
images interspersed with
directions, reminders, lists:
the moon lights the sky before
it’s risen, 300 Central Park West,
film unafraid to be still,
cancel Amazon Prime.
 
Here cross-streets and grocery lists
take on new proportions,
the mundane and the sublime
steep together and leave me to see
the elegance in the scaffolding.
I delete the things I now remember
without reminder. What remains?
Ideas not poem-worthy and
aphorisms unfulfilled, the itemizing
of images never gotten to.
 
But the cold fuchsia of red
borscht in the Village and the sun
of egg at its center will be for
someone else, my blanks yoked
to their wholes. Sometimes
the unwritten has more heat
outside itself, our reminders
evidence of more than errands.
 
However one edits,
nothing is more or less than
the groceries or the moon,
lifted to equal unimportance,
flattened for collaging
as we could never be:
unencumbered by context,
complete within their own
constraint.