Tapestry

 
Your walls have fallen. Priam’s gold.

Surrounded by 1975, layered one over the other.

How can I believe objects have no hidden rubies,
uncovered, washed, and laid out?

Our story is told through strings.
Each color an edit, perfected

like shoe polish and the messy rags
I found—the shoehorn in your hand for an interior, manmade.

Asked if you really loved me the first humid night of the year,
reverted and pressed for.

This scene is silent though. Look here,
finely, traces of my breath, they last indefinitely.

I dropped my pretense.