Archivalosity

You keep thinking it’s not
A text, so much as an
Object to be buried,

A thing, a container,
A box of something rare
Or at least peculiar,

And you don’t know just what
To do with such a thing—
Your bank that holds your words—

That preserves their patterns.
You’ve been replacing things,
That’s why. This container,

First found on a counter,
Part of the DMZ—
You’ve been replacing texts

With other sorts of things,
With odd little treasures.
What will become of this?

Can you wait out the hour,
The day? Can you get to
A place safe for your names?

What they are, anyway,
Right? A series of hoards
Of parallel insults.

No, you’re still lost in it,
The reading and writing,
The collections of grace.