recollection #248

there is a memory i still
have no place to leave
of her, with an authority
made from: a door with
her name on it,
a desk and embossed papers
with her name on them
and a jury of books
who's function was
to look worn and
be silent.
gesturing to the waterfalls
the sparkling detonations still
on her shelves, "my husband,
he collects waterfalls" she suggested
and i first thought of a stranger
who took twinkling and made of it
white rivets to fasten something
otherwise uninterrupted
in photo frames
but i nodded to respect
her name and papers and books
and a stranger who's relief was
suspending a collapse
while i was beneath a waterfall
trying to push the river
back uphill - she smiled
while i imagined
sisyphus calling me an amateur.