I close my eyes,
my fingers around money,
my door (I lock it),
boxes full of everything, old letters
you once wrote me,
searching for me.
I close up like
a bud at the end of the day.
I close latches, matchbooks,
all books, gates,
conversations—nice to see you—
and walk away, walk away.
I can’t help being good at that.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
