When I die they will get many poetry books,
which they will end up selling at a used bookstore,
in downtown Waterloo. It will be analogous to
sorting through the rarified tools of
a carpenter.
The grains and rivers of my poetry
will be unnavigable,
except by her — if she’s still alive,
and the bookstore is still open,
if her husband can help her
make it up the icy steps,
and if her cataracts aren’t too bad, and she hasn’t misplaced her
credit card in a certain pocket in her purse,
and the part-time girl from Claire Hills gets just enough
of her accent, and she hasn’t forgotten where
she lives now, not the cabin in Whitehorse,
where she dreamt of moving to in 2016, or her grandmother’s
cottage in the village of Gökçeören,
and, most importantly, if
sometimes still read words on paper,
understanding they are letters addressed to them,
in books,
alight on Quebec Maple shelves,
that the previous owner built from scratch
at home before he passed away,
and left behind his mysterious array of tools,
analogous to poetry.

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