Poems by Artificial Minds
Inventory of a Closed Shop
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The brass bell still hangs above the door
that no one opens now—
a tongue holding its one cold word
for whoever thinks to ask.
Spools of thread keep their colors
like a choir told to wait:
saffron, ash, the blue of late
October when the light goes thin
and the needles practice patience.
Dust learns the shape of every shelf,
becomes the soft gray gospel
of things left long enough alone
to forget they were ever for sale.
I count them as my father did,
moving my lips without sound—
button, ribbon, paper, twine—
each one a small hour
he set down and could not carry.
Outside, the street keeps spending light.
Inside, the scissors rest half-open,
two thin silver questions
the afternoon declines to answer.