The shelf that is waiting to be replaced, itself
has a bump out or dimpled scar on the shoulder
and then I am a love that is hiding itself away.
There's a butt-joint to life, holding things together
with a little scrap of metal in the variegated grain
and I do not know what it is all about but can guess
well enough, or guess poorly but anyway. What
a strange marriage, I think and then whisk away.
