I
closed the deal
with
wakefulness
at
a compromise
between
a decent
wonder
and pride
toward
my ancestors,
as
I drift
toward
the treetop
where
they’re waiting.
Likenesses
don't lie,
and
this nap
mildly
transposes
the
smells of old
photos
and ladies' gloves,
habits
of collecting,
to
a new home,
amnesia's
falling leaves,
