trinkets

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