I’m alone when I come upon it
stuffed into the recesses
of a secret place, and yet
not completely hidden, as if
needing to be discovered.
So, I think, so this
is where he has kept it,
admiring how it leans
into the camouflage of an honest thing,
a memory forming —
lawn in all directions,
shot glasses,
a tinkle of wind chimes
in the shade.

Standing here, holding it,
clever words trapped
against my skin, I feel its unease
in the open room, the brightness
it has been lifted into.
There will be no putting it back, no
pretending to be still blinded
by its concealment. Entering it now,
absorbing its old news, examining
the underpinnings, the perfect surface
still wears the smoothness
of a lake in morning air.

I leave it in plain view, imagining
his surprise.