The once full boxes I move through
Slow. Afraid of the taupe . . .
The contents . . . And, truth?
Punching the malaise tout de suite doesn’t knock out the memory &
I recall the cool grey-blue sea haze which we planned to stand upon
Taking everything — like the buff sand does our toes — And
Easily making a dream of it, just as it is
Dear God, another box
. . . Where does this fit?
Did it ever?
Can it again?
Or folding our flaps
Must we start over