Here are my gifts: smudges of bud,
A blame of lime. Everything your remember crowds
Away. Stubble memory,
The wallpaper peeling its leaves. Fog. Fog
In the attic; this pod of black milk. Anymore,
Only a road like August approaches.
Sometimes the drawers of the earth close;
Sometimes our stories keep on and on. So listen—
Leave no address. Fold your clothes into a little
Island. Kiss the hinges goodbye. Sand the fire. Bitch
About time. Hymn away this reliquary fever.
—David St. John, lines from “Elegy” in The Shore (Houghton Mifflin, 1980)