buried in a frozen stack of make-ahead meals
under a mound of clean but unfolded laundry
indistinguishable from an accumulation of small
appliances in the basement
next to the weed-whacker in the shed
in a drawer of practically new paints and brushes
indoors but pointed like a Celestron telescope to the stars
touching spine after spine lined up on the bookshelves
tracing an imagined pilgimage on a map
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
