it's this light that keeps
escaping between the folds
of fabric
and glass
the gentle posture of shoulder against sun
it's this oddly shaped memory that doesn't fit
in any of the small boxes tucked in drawers
holding old skin, hairpins and buttons
little things made big
seems only a fragile lifting of letting go
will do away with this quiet nonsense
made like steel glory in the corner of our eyes
little stones in my pocket–
not so innocent shrines in the cupboards
you speak of letters like they carry the memory
and not you
like a ritual fire will cleanse and hitting replay is a sin
govern the light
illuminate fingertips
pass out the day and dawn new intention
curtsy to the clock and slip it a kiss
it knows circles and anchor
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