Charlie Don't Surf.

The body remembers the wound
despite the tightly threaded stitches;
the arm cut off for its own good,
it tries to wave. The brain recalls with ease, the scent
of a married ex-lover’s shirt; the exact
shape of the deceased uncle’s nose:
O hook of memory! Tell me the house doesn’t dream
of the old walls where mice nested
in the shed hair of its owners. Tell me the earth
doesn’t remember each disappeared footpath and forest,
every city razed to dust. Burned out stars
give the light we dream by. What I’m saying
is my heart, that stubborn muscle, has learned
the wild cadences of your music; I’m saying
even when your echo fades away
it dances on.