Where did this cup with its
Vague, happy flowers come from
And this scarf, torn cross the beauty of its face?
The pen, the boot, only one of a set,
Will there be more coming Venus-like from the mire
Called my life?
Discarded carelessly, rendering chances
For a true requiem impossible.
That would take thought .
There is none here.
Pick one or even some to archive,
Wrap carefully, ribbon as you wish
And wish as you ribbon.
If the sting disappears in the act
You are lucky,
you hurt, you cry, you mourn
The day the cup, scarf, boot
Entered your life.