There’s a box
in my closet
under stacks of faded clothes,
where I hid
the olden treasures
of the age-begotten woes.

In the box
in my closet
lay a browning, ****** knife
made of etchings,
made of jewelry,
made of scenic, deadly life.

On the box
in my closet
wraps a film of grime and dust,
only printed
with the salt
of the liquids love did lust.

With the box
in my closet
I could disappear the day
with the lyrics
of my tongue
that my lips could never say.

In the box
in my closet
there’s a life I never knew
fifty one
unsent letters,
and they’re all addressed to you.

But the box
in my closet
embodies pitied past,
so one new letter
will I send,
for it shall be my last.