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  • Sometimes I forget to provide a safe place for memories

    The tin cup from where you called me once
    but wouldn’t tell me who you were, only that
    there were three trees in your front yard.

    We ended up meeting in a graveyard off
    Witchduck road, talking nervously about
    music, the mysteries, hair color.

    The oar with a snake skin collar, from my
    father’s days as a camp counselor, he claims
    to have killed a cottonmouth with that paddle.

    Years later, I watched a video shot by the Navy
    as they buried him at sea, the bugle sounding off
    as his ashes fell into the Adriatic.

    The reels of film, left in a vinegar rust that
    tell a story never mundane, through frames, sprockets
    that behave like a time machine, unraveling

    silver dye scrolls, releasing coal mines, Christmas
    trees, murder mysteries, silkworms, childbirth,
    hiding things that are too painful for gelatin and halides.

    Sometimes I think of these things that could
    have been left on a curb, shelved in a thrift-store
    sold for a quarter

    where do memories go when items depart?
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