Billiards, darts, coke bottles from 1952.

Among this junk, I don't know what to do.

I think it's time that I let go of you,

but once more I've returned to this basement,

because despite my wish to circumvent,

the familiarity of your ghost—

illness, and stillness—is the best host

for insufficient sorrow I've been able

to find. There are arrowheads on the table,

under glass; flecks of mica in a tin

on the counter and a punching bag in

one corner: all these markers, random things

remind me of you clipping macaw wings,

and the memory of your blindness stings.