Wherever I look, stinging nettles shoot up. —Clare Goll
A frayed, untied shoelace
trailing between dreams.
A skeleton key buried in a desk drawer
lost as a compass in a shipwreck.
A cigar box filled with
the towpath’s flashcards.
A poisoned hand mirror tucked
inside its black velvet carrying case.
A doll with sand seeping
out of its cracked eye.
A rusted anchor tossed
into a snowbound dumpster.
A lifetime of moonless nights trapped
inside my grandmother’s silver thimble.