start_again ovenbird In the Notes app on his iPad he finds a poem. He doesn’t remember writing it. But he must have. How else would it be there, titled and tucked away? “There’s a hole in my memory” one line reads. A hole big enough to swallow the act of writing the poem, it seems. “Have you written any other poems?” I ask. “I don’t think so,” he says. “I’m not even sure I wrote this one.” But we find no reference to it anywhere online. It doesn’t have another author. That night I dream that I have forgotten twenty years of history with someone I love. I’m told we went to Europe together once. But in my mind it never happened. In my mind we’ve only just met. Maybe that’s always true. We are always just meeting each other as we are now, and now, and now. I write the poem of who we are, and tomorrow I will write it again, and I’ll write it until the holes in everything I know engulf me, and there are no poems left. 260226 what's it to you? who go blather from