Regrets are blotched white-and-gold patterns
atop an antique carpet: a little too elaborate
to be laid out in the drawing room and mostly
too gaudy in taste, but at any rate,
they hold an inescapable pleasure.
For the purpose of amusement, you go through
the trouble of rolling it out delicately and tracing
the patterns with your fingers, feeling the distance
that crawls within each design, before gathering it up
again and stowing it away in an old wooden cupboard
that is seldom visited, except in bouts of extreme sanity.
There they are, in cozy woolen pockets of time, heavy with
the pressing weight of the unsaid, unread, unwritten,
letters locked inside a drawer with other magic totems,
waiting to be sent and waiting to be read and waiting
always to be remembered in one single stroke of absolution.