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We know so little directly.
Trees must break into rooms
before we know them,
into parquetry and floor.
Then we say, Ah, Mahogany,
and learn the knots and grains
of skin covering our walls,
some finishes, the deep bright roots
in our eyes.
Memory is so breakable
we store it in things.
Objects become us like clothes
take on our shapes.
We choose them to be us;
we are revealed in the furniture.
Perhaps they drain us kindly
like photography. We touch them;
they take on our shine.
On my bookshelf with lean-to legs
there is some of me in your photo;
there is a teaball in sterling.
We are coming apart together,
delicate and unexpected.
Room after room is full of us;
each book a part of our brains,
enamels, chocolate spoons,
shells and loose bones.
We can be put together again
a little, part by part.
When we are gone we will
not be quite gone.
To someone among our objects,
we will be more there.
Perhaps we gathered them
just for the purpose,
otherwise there would be only
dry parchment, tarnished negatives,
veneers.
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