On the third floor,
rows of boxes lean against
one wall. I no longer know
what’s in them: cables,
books, picture frames?
It doesn’t seem to matter.
*
But today I unwrapped
presents we were given years
ago: one glass kettle with
a blue marble on its lid, a pair
of hand-painted candlesticks;
one hand-crocheted tablecloth
trellised in tiny daisies.
*
We went for a walk
as the sun scalded
the hulls of ships
vermillion, one last
time before giving
in to the dark.
*
Has anyone ever
given you an Indian
rope burn? Voices
of children darting
through jets of water
at the fountain.
*
Quaint towns along
the coast, houses with
wraparound porches.
Perhaps a clearer
view of summer
skies from there.
In response to cold mountain (56): one thing.