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.