I place my hand on this drift.

This scene is what it is: acquainted. 
I rest like old rusty coins at the bottom of that lake,
burrowed into the bottom of a mechanic's jacket,
but that's not who gave it to me.
It's novel and fitting like our professor's leather suitcase
but with the latch unbuckled and flapping as he walks.
I could lay on the back of the couch this afternoon,
feel the back vertebral column synchronize my spine
and be still.
Yesterday, when i sat stroking the skeleton of a fan,
I remembered the pearl cufflink I found on the windowsill,
rare like an owl feather.
O keep us from the flash of the world.
Unbend, unbend, and hinge;
this pleads raw and organic and unconcealed.
A lone bulb wrung from a power line,
shattered under the weight.
But the shards have a pulse.
They're beating on the ground.


Sometimes old things get meshed in