Worn and faded shirts loosely folded
into a pile at the foot of the bed signify
a hope I cannot seem to throw away
so I wash them again, almost believing
that it might still turn out differently.
One day I will realize: this is how it is.

Branches pruned from tomato plants,
in their moment of excision were meant for
the trash bin; but two months later they lie
on the ground by the garden pots and now
a spider has made its web among them.
Who am I to stop remnants and beginnings
from existing together in one puzzling circle?

Books I bought on my way back from the desert
sit next to books I bought one summer in Seattle
and next that, a cherry box containing
the ashes of a black and white dog who was
unflinchingly willing to listen to the piano and
for fourteen years often slept underneath
the bench, his chin on its pedals.

The receipts, a book of their own,
are a story of how I passed the time.
To supplement this: a gallon Ziploc
filled with every greeting card ever received
in which anyone I so much as half-loved
had written a personal note.

The red dress, proof of trying, of aliveness.
I thought I had given it away.
When I found it rolled up in the corner of
a cardboard box forgotten under my bed
I sat on the floor and held it to my face,
breathed it in, told myself I was strong
even if I hadn’t felt that way at the time.