The poem “Forgetfulness” by Billy Collins continues: “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.” I love the way he opens with a wry statement and closes on a different note altogether, as he does here: “No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.”
Billy Collins, Sailing Along Around the Room (New York: Random House, 2001), 29.