Of everything that gets lost in a lifetime. Of everything that eventually gets justified. Turned to irony or black humor. Of every way to go looking for reprieve or forgiveness. I'm propped up on my elbows out the open window the train-length of what used to be Yugoslavia. Three boys my age along the tracks are shooting us with stick guns. The field workers my age are cutting cornstalks with sickles, stacking them like teepees. A girl my age walks down to the well with a wooden bucket, lowers it on a rope. The grimace on her face when she pulls it full is pre-Biblical. Of everything in this lifetime forgotten. My friend undresses for me in the dark, dropping her prosthetic leg inside her jeans. The thud. Waking up in a cemetery after chased by dogs across the railroad tracks, scaling the ancient stone wall. Blood-caked nails. The swamp house with shadows of men walking around inside the water through its burnt-out floorboards. Of everything needed to be memorized or written down to be remembered. There is never enough vodka. Never enough television. Of this I need to say to you at this whatever unexpected moment. There is never enough bewilderment.