EMPIRE OF MINOR THINGS
The porousness of memory; objects suck it up, leach it out, stilled into the nether-time of otherworldly reaches and recesses, a signifying crack letting all and sundry in and out again
The panicked self aware of tightness, but without realisation or release to the web of things; a trapped fly, with no world beyond the web, life, vibrating out of itself, the spider climbing...
from the corner, snugged to within tendrilled reach of anything coming in close the keepsake cabinet and its full-stuffed drawers of un-cast-me-offs, a sock drawer of snake-skins, scabs and a jar, dry, but for the salty residue.
All becoming the minor empire of things, bequeathed, begotten; the sedate purgatory of not-needed but still-wanted, a stunned-still fly in a bead of amber
set into a pretty ring, and gifted.