in the cold light of contemplation

the past slips in and out of focus

from cubby-holes of consciousness

hiding the known from the knowing

dropping hints that tease the tip of 

the tongue with a taste of familiarity

and no more, laughing at our futile

attempts to fill the recollection plate
 

with titbits, the residue of memory 

traces pinched by thieving magpies

of recall, who feed on facts until

cohesive details become slivers

contained in a concertinaed, wafer-

thin file of crumbs from the feast of 

our feats, responding vaguely, like 

strangers waiting to be introduced