came in. Began to pat down, dry off,
and rub warmth into my legs
as though they belonged to someone else
and wouldn't last. And now that
I knew they wouldn't, my sigh
set the day's finish like my signature
on a will. Final testament: gone
into a drawer that's whispered shut.

Around the drawer: this parlor,
our imperturbable cabernet,
and the godspeed of stilled things—pears
on a plate—until an ancestor
coughs from an oak frame. Dust
blurs the eye of another. Who wasn't
wet once? Who wasn't cold
in the old life?

A throat clears. An Ah yes, and a Quite so.
I've mitered their corners well. I may as well
ready my own. I have the box.
I have the small brass nails.











From Poetry Northwest, Spring 2006. Copyright University of Washington. Used with permission.