I long for memories that turn yellow,

fade (like cheap paperbacks),

and crumble in molded cinnamon sweetness in late November.

Wherein all past becomes a worm-rich earth, and

I dig my roots out of the slick concrete,

gingerly tuck in sentiment,

and clear-remember bliss; sleep in moist and fertile myth.

Memories that chariot fall in the parting of seas --

Isis! unwrap me; I am whole! --

Won't trouble my solemn, fix't smiles

When I am a queen of the Nile.