Memory

I don’t keep drafts either. What remains 
is incidental, accidental, what didn’t get swept
into the garbage in a fit of fastidiousness. Or,
what other people still possess. My father’s clothes
sorted through in the days after, chosen
for fit: dark blue suits for my friend’s
first interview, a dull palette of lambs wool
v-necks scattered to every brother-in-law, 
the squeak of black wing-tips to whoever wanted.  
I rejected boxes and boxes. Like dreams. I imagined
I could do it without sense, without touch.


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