Recursive

Sometimes I stop and look
at the lint in my pocket.

First, I notice it. It's not
every time that I do. I

let it unravel at my
fingers' surrender:

historiographical twine,
threads and symbols

of what I kept, what
I held dear; I write

what I protect, what
I hide, what I write

survived all sorts of dirt
and multiple washings,

needless companions and
misunderstood burdens, cigarettes,

lighters, keys, hands: a
constant mangling from

sweaty, greasy, timid
hands.

But how did that
get there?