It's wanting things not to be lost,

naively pretending
to equal the gods
who can do everything, except finitude.
For example, the bird I saw moments ago
running parallel to the curb
is a bird I'll never see again,
but I close my eyes and it's there:
the image I have of the bird isn't the bird
but it is the bird in some way.
Thus, I think, the world in which we exist
is a pure image of wild boars, lighthouses,
oranges, highways, clouds, boats, perfumes.
Poetry is the devious form of memory.

It's wanting things not to be
lost. It's closing your eyes and seeing
on the curb the same bird,
at the same time,
what does it matter if it's a bird or a memory?
What matters is standing
before something that, in the end, endures.