Might we collapse
just past instruments of the past
used to bring us back,
constants that connect us
to previous loves and lives,
morrows of yesterland
when we were wise enough
to let go and dumb enough
to hang on, for good or ill.
Mornings may implode
into afternoon justices,
played like trumpets
found in background rivers
where one of us goes to write,
but all the things we bring,
can’t carry us away
from haunted houses
made from the wood of our mistakes.
Make me a remembrancer,
a broken teacup, justified to chip away
and come back again and again,
lest the keys of dreams
should fall into the hands of forgetfulness,
I have claim to expect more after each
than before more, figuring out
the acme of the art,
the finish was just the start.