Instead
of housecleaning
it helps
to think of it
as
visiting the things I love—
painted
Italian candlestick
San
Ildefonso pot
my
paleography collage
with
bits of a Larousse
binoculars
cottonwood
drum
the
alabaster jar
from the
hilltown
of the
Etruscans
where I
walked
with mad
dogs
in the
noontime sun—
my
long-ago
peregrinations
down to
this
dreamy
circling
of the
threadbare cloth,
this
unheroic
shooing
off of dust.
—Christie
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