Tucked under the eave of the roof is a box.
I dust off the cover and open the broken latch.
Inside there is only paper and photographs.
Portraits and landcapes. Still lives and abstract art.
The paper is filled with declarations of independence,
vows of heavenly bliss,
and staggering isolation manifestos.
Long sweeps of lines, sentiments and sorrows.
Sex and souls. Singularity and purpose.
The words are mine and yours.
There is room in the box, time to fill it with more
paper and pictures and patterns.
All of it to be stored away in a box.
I draw the images near my face and suck in their dust.
The things smell and sound like life.
They crinkle with my touch.
I detect a faint odor of must.
I make room for more in the box.
I close the lid to light.
Among many I like, this one I like very much! /g
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