Rosary0fSighs

“Darning his socks”, I think someone will see the tilt of book spines in my cabinet, fantasize about my secrets; 5-year-old ceramic handprint, hand spun letters and fond remains, sent by whom; they might be dead. What changed the world when I was gone, brands in dust lay palmless, Sedona rainbow obsidian the 1939 Dussaillant Sauternes no one wants? I’m part of my own frail collection bourgeois vivisection. Not more is known, not this repose, unsought by seers, psychos, lovers. Though invisibility is willed, the shame weeps through the hourglass, fracture of convenience. No one chooses to endure it more than once as one by one, each talisman will lose their saint their arbiter, who knows the contours, dog ears creases, phrases held in reverence, who pines for its familiarities, pictures of Colorado sunrise; outlasted by its slow sepia.