this little table
is chaos for me
home, exhausted
i shed what i wear
the table holds
artifacts of no time
and offerings for myself,
set in silver, like these:
moonstone pendant,
a polished sliver of clouds and blue sky;
green tourmaline,
that i wear at my throat when my spirit is broken;
ring from Tibet,
a mirror of love;
and enamel for nails, the color of shells
two DVD’s V-Z and Waqt, unwatched for months
a paper cylinder, with some cotton-tipped swabs
glasses
cellphone
woven-reed box
lavender bowl
small demitasse cup, from grandfather’s world
this clutter
these fragments
of life at this time
look strange,
disconnected.
there’s no room to type.
good grief, this needs to visit Hera’s Pallu for edit triage.