I
The objects of my life are laid bare
Outdoors, on a small blue table
Next to a blue bench, in front of a blue wall;
A sachet of lemon-scented hand-wipes
I have carried for months, like a weapon or Bible;
The pages of a lined notebook are bright white.
Some roses are hunched over
In thin, tube-like vases,
The blooms, dusky tissue-like husks
That dream of edging towards the sun,
Unfastening like ruched skirts in the heat.
Now I pass my afternoon watching
As loosened pieces fall weightless
And drift into pooled rainwater.