The past moves me
from closed closets
to sealed envelopes.
The past moves me
into previously
occupied bedrooms;
the small Tupperware
and fenced lawns
of the same tenant.
On Saturdays it tucks
me under a thumb.
On Sundays I lie
over the shoulder.
Sometimes I am cloth-like,
sometimes a pin
in a scarf. Sometimes
I am an empty space
myself, other times
fluid and spilling over
zippers, only to disappear
into a previous space.
I am an empty gesture
in time, located
behind consequence,
a movement into
a moment, a memory-
based thing,
a flag simmering
under a foreign
ray, a bookmark on a page.