You ended up in the wash again
all the frayed edges stuck together,
how the lint flakes off your face
and I remember the aura of meaning
But not the A, B, C’s of your heart.
We each start as a clean sheet
and when we bring the light to see
reading the count by twenty or
six hundred names scored in by the ink
come out to the implied lines of the edge
where we cannot see what was written.
I set the cycle, high.
I poured the phosphate over the _____.
I dropped ____in the drum.
I closed the ____.
This is where the pathways have failed.
Like the rise and fall of asphalt in the heat.
Where the water pulls the edges away from center line.
You remain like a picture show folded and stuck in my pocket.
(hands on the outside riding down between pleats)