A poem, which may not be a poem at all:
pale blue blanket
softest yarn
saddest thoughts
hiding under my hair, in my skull
have i thought the ache into my heart?
where would i feel it, otherwise?
the light slowly warms as i sit writing:
metal desk, metal box playing music, no musicians.
is it being inside, alone, that opens this
drawer of forgotten sadness?
the cool dark night, the bleeding, isolated porch lights,
outside and all around.
i don't remember where this blanket came from.
is it handed down, an heirloom of quiet, vague grief,
or did i make it myself, stitch by careful stitch.
it's finished now. but i can't seem to let go.
perhaps there's a drawer i can put it in.
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