What becomes of these remnants lying here
depends on the time given to piece together
a semblance of order with an apparent grace.
I walk about the room sifting the detritus
of the cumulative turns and half-decisions
I’ve stumbled, befuddled, through to this end.
Not that where I sit shuffling through my patterns
can be such a burden to cause my back to snap
as if I’m some worn pack animal becoming glue;
it becomes tiresome to pick up pieces I’ve seen before,
or seem to remember, yet am not sure where they belong
in the catalog of meanings which make up this life.
So I continue on obsessively fingering each tired scrap,
stitching and re-stitching until my cloak is in tatters.