I remember what the world
was like before I became
what I am. It flutters
past me like the aftermath
of ash when the fire’s
been put out, a dancing
scrap that might’ve
been a sweater, or a book
or a box of crap
I should’ve given away
while I had the chance.
Once I was a person
who went places: summer
camp, Niagara Falls,
the caves of Timpanogos.
Now I wait, always
equidistant from the site
of my disaster like a dog
at the end of its lead.
No one looks for the keys
to the forgotten valise,
lost like my other fates
and the trees can’t grow back
fast enough to save us.
