Lost and Found

I bought some man’s memories in a yard sale. Left the stuffed bunny in the rain. Placed my own photos in his frames – nailed them up on the wall. My hands are cracking again, I’m not quite sure why, I’ve loosened my grip. Lashes across that boy’s back at the pool. His father close by. I wrote down their stories in another life, letting the paper drift away in the wind. Maybe it’s the possession that’s killing me — I need to stop watching. Their faces remain like the dying man I found praying in some American cemetery. He is lost too. In the procession of clouds, holding on to the light. He wrote poetry, once. But never found his way through. On his withering wrist, he wears the watch I pawned for ink and paper.