The Wrong Direction

I found the box in a crate near the wall,

under the tax forms and the old tangled leads.

It’s a small, hinged thing that used to hold it all,

back when we had much more tangible needs.

I ran my finger over the lining of blue,

that deep, dusty velvet that swallows the light.

It turned into shadows as the pile moved through,

changing from softness to something like night.

If you push it one way, it’s smooth as a lake,

but brush it against the grain and it scars.

It’s a bruised kind of fabric, a soft kind of ache,

like looking for ghosts in the back of old cars.