In the video of my dream everyone must
always start again and lose a little progress
each time. Your sister had already gotten rid of your clothes
so there was nothing left for us to pack.
Each time I go to your house there are less
and less boxes and less and less to pack
until I can’t put together what it must have looked like.
The dead don’t pack their own clothes.
I store your baseball glove and baseball cards
out of view, unreachable.
The red key to my storage unit taunts
every other key on the ring.
My car is littered with grief.
I am guilty of so much.
my bad leg says bad weather everyday
last night I learned the snow
plough ploughs through the night
I startled in my sleep
every couple of hours
a discarded dream
I remember remembering
my dreams, but their plots
the vacant apartment above
mine groans the heat on. sounds
like a chair, heavy with a body,
being pushed back from a desk.
I push back from my desk and catch
a glimpse of a faint snow drift. there
is no sound in it. something misplaced
in me stirs. I don’t mistake it for loss.
I don’t look for it.
TR Brady is a poet and fiber artist. Their work has appeared in Poetry Daily, Denver Quarterly, Paperbag, Bennington Review, and Copper Nickel. TR holds an MFA from the Iowa Writers' Workshop and is the co-founder/co-editor of Afternoon Visitor, a new journal of poetry and hybrid text.