I found a chain of secrets
Old keys on a loop of frayed string
And a dusty, forgotten film cartridge
Some vacation spent with you
We bought native art with limp dollars
From the hotplate hood of a car
While inside, a man sat flickering
Asleep in a rush of blown air
Must be that each blink captures something
That hides, undeveloped, and waits
For a whoosh of recollection
Red dust being blown away
David Busby
Seattle
