Martha Zweig

Even as you forget me more, so little

else crowds in. As you

forget, oh, everything, item

by tidbit, I can’t begin to recall what I

did either with my own dead. How

to not-catch never a glimpse at the no window?

Welcome myself to the cellar.

Lush cobwebs shimmering in festivity

will do for a mind and the occasional

furnace huff will do for the mind’s pride.

Virtuous old tools & blunt eccentric

might-come-in-handys nuzzle my touch at first

but not after the time — once too many — my manners

omit to compliment the housekeeping the small

meticulous vermin do. Thereafter, slights

& shrugs now of negligence, & you

— who were dear to me, who settled my fingers

in fine dust — flick irritably away.

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