poetry as a lesson in history

The names, the dates,
The traces of vanillin
Leaching from old libraries,
We forgive them
For their obsessive nature.
We know history
Is a plea for permanence.
Sometimes an appeal
For relief, since what is familiar
Can never be too obvious,
Else we terribly fail
Our memory’s cunning.
Though this instant
We know of as now
Changes tomorrow,
There is no such thing
As forgetfulness.
There is only color
And the myth
Of its absence in dreams.
We belong to the past
We recognize, to the present
We forge with care
And ignorance. Always,
This one is for the books.