Forgetfulness by Billy Collins

Forgetfulness

The name of the author is the first to go 

followed obediently by the title, the plot, 

the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel 

which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of, 

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor 

decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain, 

to a little fishing village where there are no phones. 

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine muses goodbye 

and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag, 

and even now as you memorize the order of the planets, 

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps, 

the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay. 

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember, 

it is not poised on the tip of your tongue 

or even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen. 

It has floated away down a dark mythological river 

whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall 

well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those 

who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle. 

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night 

to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war. 

No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted   

out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.