Into the box
I throw pages
of desiccated ink.
The beginning
of abandoned poems.
Footsteps
fading on the stairs.
Tracks that disappear
in thin air.
I forget why
I collect them.
Fragments of life?
For what use?
I still have life
to spend.
I don’t need crumbs
from the last meal.
Bills showing
the cost of living,
burying people,
my shattered heart.
Perhaps I should start over.
Return all the words I know
to the sea.
Call out in the order
that I learned them,
and listen
to what it makes of them
in the waves.