I’ve been told not to come here—to this tool shed of memory,
where everything is as old as it is useless. Inside, a scoop of millet seed
balances on a mulch sack. There are garbage bags full
of crushed Natural Light cans exhaling. Trespassing, I feel
like everything is a discovery—the open slat window, the salt licks
meant for nesting in the laps of tree stumps, the way the dust meanders
through the light like a premonition.
Outside, mare’s tail clouds run wild and smear the sky orange
at the end of a long day, and a hummingbird feeder hangs from the mulberry.
No one has come for me yet. Silence is just noise falling backwards
from the future, and I don’t know what to do with it.
I haven’t lived through it yet. It’s like wiping my eyes in the rain.
I can’t see clearly. I can’t get a grip on anything. Alone here,
I linger and thumb the empty hull of a shotgun shell. There are more
long days ahead. For now, everything is quiet and mutable.
I wish the present could stay like this—in its place and hidden.