loose ends

the sediment
of love, the dust of memory.
the bones
of times past,
scattered
in the quiet near
empty yard
of wall to wall carpet
imbedded with
the backs of earrings,
shards
of glass. martini spills.
pictures
boxed.
books divided.
mine or yours?
all is done,
but the grieving
and therapy,
notifying the post office.
talks
long into the night
on the phone
to those not tired
of listening.