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.