Let's workshop this poem about cherished memories becoming dimmer and less tangible due to the absence of a significant individual who once helped breathe life and meaning into them
One Lifeboat Fewer
Memories defoliate
into rotting stumps
too soon after that tssk
of the sharing flame—
luminous no longer
to nourish them, if only
with a nudging glance;
to flush and flesh
them out; to verify
or challenge playback
by you: inheritor of this
unexpected poverty.
“We need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.”—Kafka (against the safe-space cancel culture pushed by anti-art bullies, left and right)