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the impulse to take stock is back once more
and i’m forever running out — of time,
of space to store items shelved for later.
loose ends on hooks, hitches collecting dust,
the dead with silver bells above their graves.
i sweep the eaves; their nests of notions put
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to rest, grazes, twigs and feathers. scales. god.
metal bartered to keep me above ground.
the poems that should have been prayers.
the riches from the carcass are bottled;
milk teeth and buried clavicles. the hail
marys tendered for someone else’s sins
and every time that i turned on my heels.
the rest is left for its rightful owners.
★
19.04.2026
