Getting ready to move, getting
rid of most things, finding
the little bits of life that got
tucked in old books and
stuck behind drawers.

It’s been years, years,
years since I smoked
and I’ve found five
lighters already.

And umpteen train
tickets to Creil,
Clermont-de-l’Oise.

A postcard never
sent, half in French.

Books with friends’
maiden names
inscribed.

A jolt from red ink,
written by my
grandmother some
seventeen years ago,

and a greeting card
photo she pasted
above, inside
the front cover
of a secondhand book.

A cardinal.

And wouldn’t you know,
the last time we ever spoke
that was the bird drifting
around the backyard.

Some of this I’ll keep,
the rest I’m tempted
to burn — with the
candy-colored
Bics lined up in a row.

Fate, I suppose.