Wednesday, May 30, 2018

James Walton #100 Even the Broken Things Entreat

Each day the border      
becomes a line of retreat
a swinging vane

declining lids
over the almond iris

reduces to standing space
the things that were once apart

even the broken things entreat

out of their tenacious memory

a daughter’s hand at four
in an acrylic blue kindergarten print
last school bag of a boy’s years

a ragged clay dragon coiled by fire
the chipped koala salt and pepper shakers
texta lines of height on the kitchen door

this house has swallowed a library

now the overdues are called

each box of go or stay
has a notice of acquittal
fares for the van to release

a recusal of all vanities.


  1. mine's more like a library swallowed a house

    1. God I know, the amount of material in this place is like the national archive before the digital age.

  2. oh this is just my place writ large and beautiful. And without the fluff balls

    1. A fluff ball called Betty calls all the shots here, and she is not enjoying the packing up.

    2. Ha. Your fluff ball called Betty sounds like a cat. She'd be beside herself by now. Under a bed or on top of the fridge. They are creatures of habit. Like us. Very fine poem, James. The vanity of possessions, as if we were pharaohs.

  3. No minimalists (the new trend?) de-cluttering your museum then?


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