Save them all I think every time
I find a piece of scrap paper in a seasonal jacket.
Last year's grocery list in last year's
pen color gives you a secret to a life
you blurred your way through. How poignant
all the yogurts she used to buy.
Or the list of ideas for the collaboration
that is so clearly now its own poem
because you didn't know he would die
when you wrote turning 30 in prison
and it was a dark joke then
and it's a darker joke now.
Or the letter for the revolution
telling the life-giving properties of salt—
pounds and pounds and pounds
of flour, rice, beans in the pantry
because you can't see what's coming
and the past always seems so startlingly
to someone else.