The things I take and the things
I leave, escape the webs
Of the words I weave. The waltz
I trip on iambic feet
Rips it’s skirts on the sharp and neat
Box edges. Such
Is the nature of much
Of departure’s detritus
And wedges.

It annoys me that things escape –
So assertive in their heaviness as
They are. This past I leave and
This past I take – it, too, dashes
Through separated clauses; gaps
Left ajar. No matter. Just a few more
Boxes. When I go, I’ll just leave this
Tacked to the door.