You love them still and can’t forget them,
but you never look them up,
bored as you are with sleazy memories,
and so instead your conscience aches
and you feel sultry and desultory
although there’s nothing wrong
and you were not at fault.
The difficulty is to start again,
get out of all your failures and get on with it;
but burnt as you so miserably are,
you really do not feel much for it,
sticking to those awkward sticky memories
that you don’t feel like looking up
and for that reason even less can get away from.
It’s the old predicament of old sentimentality,
and all you actually can do about it
is to wallow in those memories
and write some poems to assort them.