A woman who was old as
old,
a hundred years or more,
kept far too much, so
I’ve been told,
though where I’m not
quite sure.
Those things that
someone now forgot,
those things that no one
saw,
those things worn out as
like as not,
or things in some old
drawer.
Those things deep in
some antique chest
or in some hidden well,
those things that stuck
out from the rest,
all bones or hard to
tell.
Not like those found in
secret dreams
and those too tired to
care,
she’s taken them away,
it seems,
though I’m not sure
quite where.
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