REM
I open the box because it is full
of paths and oceans and forgotten rooms.
This is where we find our bags of wind
and barrels full of sweet apples.
This is the home of every lost thing-
pocket knife, buckeye, life magazine.
And the ghosts live here, of course. Where else?
Grandparent, teacher, childhood friend.
Shake the box and see what falls
to one side or to the other.
Shovel, waterfall, overalls, mother.
Stacks of photographs shuffled and dealt.
And some of it just felt- an anxious heart,
arrow wound, mist and smoke, that which chases
or that we chase, like the feathered flight,
the lightness of sunshine and lying in the grass,
everything past and made present,
made liquid and solid and gas.
To close the box is to open my eyes
in darkness, to be locked back into place.
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