Solids from shadows, remnants emerge—
mirror, empty shelf, closet door. 
Sky not yet morning blue, distant

shout down in the street.  Tired
as if she had not slept, tangled
in the weeds of his quilt, a slow awakening

on the strewn beach of another day. 
Furnace thump.  Airplane overhead. 
Dreams fading to lists, instructions,

plans.  Sour thirst in her mouth,
throb at the bottom of her spine,
paycheck for yesterday's work—

so many boxes to pack, so many books
for a man who didn't read.  Hooks hidden
in buckets of tackle—knotted line,

rusted reels, fingers pricked.  So much glass,
sawdust, so many oily parts of tools
even her brothers could not name. 

Decades since he closed the shop,
moved far away from any shore. 
Not even Goodwill wanted his shirts,

flannel worn to the fineness of ash,
cracked buttons, reek of the daily cigar. 
A body crumbles, a soul flees; someone must

finish the work the landlord, government,
electric company require.  Vacated rooms
left to their dusty breathing, creep of sun

down walls and into corners.  This morning
has been waiting a long time; weak,
the light finding its way to her.