Memory sifts a matrix of mistakes
into the rushing freshet below;
but caught in a sieve
lustrous moments, craggy with dents,
proffering ineffable riches,
wholeness as yet unfelt.
I clutch them between eager fingers,
press hard to my chest,
skin giving way, relenting
as I drive them further within,
crunching bones, glancing organs,
nestling in a thick pit deep at the core.
Glacial scars enclose the mass.
I know how foolish I am, I know
it is the gold of fools I claim,
worth nothing, pretty, petty, useless ;
and now my hands have forgotten
how it got there, once,
or how to get it out.