Has this house
of collections turned
a junkyard?
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Has this house
of collections turned
a junkyard?
I wrote letters
on ephemeral moments
but get no response.
Please forgive me-
I’ve tried to disappear a
few too many times.
But what is greater
than the little leftovers
of light we each hold?
There’s sunlight behind
the curtains you, yourself, hung-
open them a look.
I’m sorry, my heart’s
a garden and I’m not good
at horticulture.
Home is a valley
amidst the bitter winter
it welcomes the cold.