It all comes back

On that Sunday, anything you know

the glove no longer fits

the man who took it from you
wears it inside out

leaves his sleeves tucked into his collar
ties his shoes when not wearing them

the test-tube lies empty on the bench
ready to roll onto the floor

knowing nothing of its end until it
fractures its death unlike yours

this boot carved its line
on soft ground

dimensions were never shared
fertile onion made sure of it

the trails in the wind that blows
leave marks on the ground

brushing the antlier hair of raven fern
lost in the vague canon of diplomacy