A Place for Everything
I, like you, can fill my days
with a thousand forms of architecture:
the digital curation of photographs,
the perfect summer playlist,
the reorganization of closets and drawers.
Our whole lives seem to be the movement
of things, the mixing and remixing
of what manages to linger, not fall away.
We buy new dishes or rearrange
the bedroom furniture; we file documents;
we leave some books on the shelf
while letting others go; we sort
the dark colors from the brights;
we collect for a while and then we ask,
"Does this bring me joy?" And what if
if doesn't? Letting go isn't so simple.
We have spaces to fill, and logic,
as pleasing as it is, becomes transient
in the shifting emotional landscapes
where we arrange our collections.
This is how we define ourselves.
I read a poem and copy a quote
into my notebook or you stow away
the winter clothes until next October.
And through the years we fill our museum,
each of us wandering the many halls
and traveling exhibits of our own museums.
Isn't it uncomfortable to wonder
what happens to this work when we are gone?
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