Nine boxes, taped, and even those
and line the keyhole gardens.
Everything fits in them—the few books
I cling to still,
the bits of jewelry, silvered with meaning,
even the beaded shirt from India—
and perched here now,
knees pulled tight to my chest,
the westering sun sketches
ebony bare branches
over water-color oranges and reds.
What boxes, shirts, books and bobbles
could breathe so lightly
in the coming night?