between grandma’s garden gloves and 
estate sale surfboard 
wax i find 
no surfboard– those are reserved 
for reality only 
surf-wax and wishing well 
lenses 
drip through cardboard boxes and 
sharpied labels

between windswept mirrors on cliffside reflections 
i find my shoes; once spraypaint obsidian
reveling in bleeding tatters of wildfire suns 
now broken blistered, 
peeling paint 

in scratched pools of black screens i see 
my jeans; scraggly joshua tree cut 
to effervesce in desert’s best 

even before it was mine they knew no one
“you are beautiful” whispers the inside of the belt
“you break me” whispers the bellbottoms 

here even, my vest: 
chinatown salvation army 
carved up stitched back 
onto my form 

what am I, if not the vestiges 
of dirges and 
alleyway impulses, urges sinking 
through secondhand selves 
still learning my menagerie of minds 
are but borrowed 
bits and forgotten 
finds

even here, papa’s lost kerchief 
gossamer threaded, worn, warm, 
the spiderwebbed scars pull back
my head of hair 

what am I, if not a lost thing? 
lost thing