Pockets

Forensic bags of fabric form
Collecting the debris of life-
Storing brittle fragments of days and adventures
Snippets of paper in foreign tongues
Wrappers which retain their taste
Crisp remnants of flowers once rich and bright
A penny for luck found on the way
The shavings-off of dreams, whittled down so they fit
Square pegs in the stubbornest, roundest of holes

Unintentional souvenirs-
Grains of sand and dusty tufts
Filling one's inner sanctum, secret hidden space
Occupying gaps between cold lining-plunged fingers.

I wish I could hoard you this way
Make substance of memory, not shadow and light
One breath, a garden yet to exist
A feather of your gentlest caress-
A sliver of your voice to take with me into slumber.