Her mind-map of the world
has shifted back whole centuries,
opening white blanks of terrae incognitae,
which had been filled as sharply as a street map
of Manhattan, or her botanical watercolors.
Now the whole globe of her brain is splotched
continents uninhabited and unnamed.
One day at a time, she, like the sun, rises
in the East, whips overhead and sets, having seen
everything under it, remembering nothing—
except Before The Stroke: those expeditions
with boon companions, in the Good Young Days
deep in her memory, which warms them
over and over while the surface cools.