Memory in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction

We like to think these are dreams, or a story
we once heard, then repeated. We like to think

we were better dressed, less suspicious, more in
love. We like to think that we argued less, about

less trivial things; that I laughed too hard when
Josh called my t-shirt the colour of moxie; we

could never agree on the merits of John Cheever
or Frank Zappa. We like to believe that film fades

while memories grow; that words can replace what
we have lost. We like to forget that mornings were

often difficult, or how often we endured an awkward
pause; that being away, too often, felt more like home.

(You can view a short film of this poem here.)