Closets

the truth, predictably, lay
somewhere in the middle, the
jam in the sandwich, his face
reflected in the knifeblade
she used to smooth the
preserve evenly as the feathered ones
sang out their morning chorus, the
sun cracking just below the
horizon, fighting to be seen
through the serried ranks of trees, flocked
out in green, putting on their summer
clothes, the long, lean look of
winter put away, for a time, in
mothballs

what do we hide in our closets, in the
jacket pockets, the stub-ends and fond
failings we repeat, and repeat, the jingles
used to lull ourselves to sleep, stasis
cradled in memory-foam, remembrances
wreathed about our brainpans, the twisted wires
that even sleep will not unentangle?