Things That Can Be Kept

There is a golden cadence third to us

Like the voice of the earth humming and stretching through bones

Of glancing back and inward to know

I was before some unknown face

A hand wiping lipstick lines off of white mugs somewhere 

Screaming steamed milk to fill fish bowls with change

And crumpled paper maps that led you to hear

That same clink of marble against ceramic

The caramel steam whispering through

Now crowded passengers of memory.

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