Your empty words,

Your blotch tears and tooth glints,

Are canned and stocked, cellar cold,

To hibernate, ferment.

Your striped and folded sheets,

Your wrinkle lines, your ant marches of speech,

Will one day be unfolded,

Will one day be un-creased.

So, preserve my stub nails,

And snub nose and slumped over spine.

Preserve my half-cup mind.

Collect my crumbs. Don’t let them drift into dusty corners.

Keep open eyes on whatmayever chime or rhyme. 

Protect, little book,

So that I may recollect in ten years’ time.