Analemma of the Moon

Waste wants to know what I’ve done with it
And why I haven’t wasted more. It waits,
Like a series of photographs taking up space
Far to the north of this windy desert atmosphere
In the attic of the deceased villager who once
Reprimanded me for taking her corner too fast
And who died with driftwood piled against
Half-buried downstairs furniture. Like that.
She asked me to inscribe a book to her
And misdate it so that later she could give it
To herself as a present on her next birthday,
Which she hasn’t lived to celebrate. I wonder,
Hearing about the excavation of her house
And how her neighbor adds her driftwood to his
Artistic garden wall, what she’s done with it.