In the solid brown case he packed the rattles
of dried asters, clematis and larkspur.
He folded up the curtains of the sun.
He took the pink spectacles through which his
other self was known, and the long beige
dress that wrapped the revelation of a wife.
He trapped under the lid songs from CDs
playing and quickly covered them with the skin
stripped from his last vision of the place.
He clicked the locks over fingers of sunlight,
then knelt, cheek pressed against the hard surface,
listening to the murmur within, the work
of memories, skilled as bees in a hive.
After a War
AuthorTim Philips