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.
