Some things destroyed and then remade me
in their wake
— Tufted, shredded,

combed through, threaded: is it any wonder
these hands do inventory in the stations

of the hours, measuring width and length,
the span of years, the tracks of silverfish

that burrowed deep in pages on the shelf?
The hassock bears the imprint of my heels.

The armchair has memorized the curvature
of my back. It’s hard to sell or give

away the emblems of accumulated life.


In response to Via Negativa: Solar Flair.

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