If I Restore Perspective, What’ll I Do With It

— Casey FitzSimons

Both ignorance and knowledge go unnoticed
in my disheveled rooms.
                                              All my clothes
have drifted from the closet, raveled off
my shoulders—yarns in loose, dust-bunny skeins,
soft and colorful to walk on as long as
there are no hidden razor blades or pencil-
compass points.
                               Small articles in dunes
against the string harp and the john: guitar picks,
pot lids, ear plugs, pill jars, DVDs,
dollar bills, spent batteries.
                                                   Some things
are still in the boxes they came in: formulas
for volumes of cones and ellipsoids, Hooke’s law
of elasticity that I meant to take back
because of its end-behavior. Manifest
Destiny, Xeno’s paradox,
Newton’s second law, and Pascal’s
triangle still in lucite cases—I might
get a chance to play charades.
                                                       I keep meaning
to sort the piano’s sloppy stack of stuff
I use every day—my father’s sliderule,
The Art of Violin, What to Look For
from an Airplane Window, my Dictionary
of Spoken Dutch, a dowling jig. The Pieter
principle gathers dust with my steam iron,
the rights of minority shareholders,
my metronome.
                               But then I might not run
across my favorite things—for example, statutes
of limitation, or the Fibonacci
series, res ipsa loquitur,
Miranda warnings, my precious tube of cadmium
red light.
                  I might take organization too far
once I start, find out how little I
ever knew about some things, how much
I’ve forgotten. There might be holes I could fall into,
things that demand repair, left-over hardware.
I might reveal high blood sugar, low thyroid,
a diminished life expectancy, where
all the money went, too many empty
boxes,
             how little I miss whoever has died.
 

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