How quickly, easily
my regard for the familiar deepens
when I look at objects I have kept
for no know reasons: quartz
from a forgotten quarry, a ballpoint pen
with stiffening ink, and even that one
unmatched button found among my         
                                          handkerchiefs.
I have come to think of them as preparations;
they are my reaching out to comprehend
what I still am after having used them.
Meanwhile through disuse and neglect
they grow in significance
and I can no longer be free of them.
Now, with their surfaces and contours
dulled with dust, their purposes gone,
I pick them up one by one -
still aware I am of the familiarity gained
and the objectivity lost.