There is a necklace on a hook upon the wall. . .

There is a necklace on a hook upon the wall,

I think it had meaning once, not long ago,

Now solid and still, the ruin of months,

That tortuous noose in pages past

Become a nothing,

Like Jesus Christ strung up among the sinners,

The idle set between a damp and dirty towel,

Just lately used to wipe a face,

And a little red umbrella,

Lately housed a stranger’s face just a half a world away.

There is a necklace on a hook upon the wall,

And a charm upon the chain,

I think it played a tune once,

Or slightly skewed it kept the pace of every step

Once forced into the future, carelessly unknown,

Or choosing not to know,

Seen and unseen but never fully blind

And all the worse in time because of it,

Real or illusioned, a thickening coat of filth

Repulses every kind of human contact

From the gentlest, most graceful tips of fingers

To the wreckage of the clasp,

Impressed as you are by rust.

And on the hook upon the wall,

Whole and surely broken

Hangs a necklace,

And I think I knew it once.