The Filter

The packing tape has lost its grip,

a frosted ribbon curled in the drawer

among the dead batteries and the clip

that doesn't hold anything anymore.

I hold it up to the kitchen light,

a milky strip of a used-up thought.

My own thumbprint is caught in the white,

a ridge-patterned ghost that I inadvertently bought.

It’s not quite clear and it isn't quite opaque,

just a dirty window into what I’ve touched.

A record of every small effort I’d make

before I decided I’d held on too much.