cells
between the floorboards
from a hundred years ago
still hum tuned to a distant note
remnants
line the bottom of a drawer
where new junk is cradled
gently in the arms of old junk
years
go by and here we are
in the very same interval
wearing new underwear
moments
do all of the heavy lifting
then retire below stairs
to serve and sup together
surety
could fill the flat surfaces
of a yellow six-sided pencil
with plenty of room to spare
love
lines the plain black hat
from which every magic rabbit
we never deserved is pulled
we
that which flutters slowly
leaf-like towards the scented soil
are the mattress of someone else's
tomorrow
lucy meskill
