This is the easy part,
filling refuse sacks,
ditching the past,
shedding notes,
the curling photos,
first drafts, second,
fifth, so many goes
at making it work.

Not noticing,
not letting the eyes rest
upon sentences,
reading the words again
Mi casa,
su casa...’

Surfaces reappear
through layers
of phone bills.
Comer excavations
throwing up diaries
to be stored unread,
for fear of being undone
by optimism.

Working on,
pulling downstairs
the weight of old jobs,
of hobbies
that didn’t last
the summer,
till momentum
to take control
of this clear-out,
knocking me down,
reclaiming rights
to the stairwell,
the floor

till it’s done.
Surveying what’s left,
shivering slightly
in the space
for the next span.