I work the lost-and-found.

People arrive breathless,
carrying labyrinths.

They describe
what they remember

rather than
what they've lost.

A map
where the island recedes
into marginalia.

A bronze key,
estranged from its lock.

By closing time,
what remains begins to unravel.

Prophecies moth
at the folds.

Even horns spiral
into archive.

I am apprenticed
to the afterlife
of objects.

The hoofprint was easy.
The hero took longer.

Thread harbours ambitions:

river,
vein,
constellation,
exit route.

Once I handed a man a way back.

Inventory:

one thread,
no hero.

Ask me about him:

I can still describe

the rasp of flax
against skin,

the salt whitening
the thread.

—Cara Waterfall

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