Relics

I love the way poems emerge

from jubilant, turbulent brightness,

from the stillnesses that breathe between

the reds and golds and the shadows,

under your hands –

stacked like a box of photographs,

these relics of treasured things,

images surfacing briefly as you rummage –

unpack the time, the stillness,

the line of a pier at evening,

the equilibrium held

just for an instant, cupped in the light.

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