In the corners of my house I’ve crammed
old chopsticks, kitchen knives, chafing dishes,
Christmas ornaments hand-made now broken,
journals, letters, poems,
unlabeled photographs, projects unfinished,
paint tubes, and catalogs,
the lot fit for some
archaeology of the trivial,
an abandoned city on which my days are built.
Snail, I carry whole histories with me,
inch by tardy inch.
Earthworm, I pass through my own castings,
re-casting as I go.
Coral, I build on dead accumulations
and harbor life there.