The Detritus Of Love
A thirty-year-old box stares from the top shelf, Calling with memories and heartache. Like a thistle attached to the cuff of his life, The box could not be washed away, nor was it welcome. Hands stained by sun, age and injury, Pry open the box, it's key long lost. A mélange of cedar, ink, old paper and Chanel, Races from the box like a demon, triggering visions. Blue Air Mail envelopes tied in a ribbon, Flash images of th...