In my closet are bits of strangeness tied up in a plastic bag
stolen goods brought here
when hurried home.
They won’t ever be lost again, but once
taken, will never be found
like they were once.
Each, like pieces-of-eight,
treasured in water and chest
within the second of resurrection
and the third, or fourth like it.
Each stone in the bag
for a sling of thought,
rounded like shot, or skipped at the sun
seated on the wave-dais, or nearly
too small for fingers and eyes.
I found them and saved them from forgetfulness,
no two similar, but on the third
tossed back to splash
in the mirror and fall on the glass
So, thrown at myself every so often
make me remember
to reach down,