in the dream I sort clear, plastic shapes

of the assemblage, I snap together

letters that correspond to their twins at gliding joints

a beastly camber, a spinal chord is excavated in my bedroom


over text I complain to my lover too much,

I come clean of it all to the oracle in my room at candlelight: silence

I sort my mother, my work, my health


my mother texts me to ask if I feel fine

about the final purge of my dwindling childhood possessions

I consent to have the conversation over with—I had

no sanctified hobbies or precious tools

what is in that basement or the closet in that room

was barely ever there

a reluctant ghost behind too many doors