Arrived back here, I was confronted with
Evidence of a previous life, littered memories –
No, not memories: indistinctly forgotten things.
A thousand simple things cacophonous
In their reticence. A Yale key to an
Unknown door that’s somewhere locked; receipts
From nights out, the colours faded to a
Papered obscurity; lid of a pen
You used to scribble a memo for me, now
Unremembered. It reminded me – as it were –
How artists in still life do capture death
In one frame, exquisite detail of the peel
And rind and pips left on a plate;
Aspects of incidence, as manifest
In accidental mess and unwashed bowls.
How Time is rendered real and tangible
Through minutiae. How light, itself
Invisible, refracts upon a surface
Or in dust motes, renders itself to gold.