In the dialect of firmly-planted feet and chest-borne script
the souvenir pronounces,
I love this place.

Face-to-face with a house key, gaping up from a coffee
cup or wine glass.
We invite these trinkets

into our drawers, our homes, and still, we don’t allow them
to assimilate.
Souvenirs depend upon

narration, our telling of the way a thing arrived into our life,
naming the land
we have crossed.

This means that our belongings grip a part of us. It helps
to handle them
with our eyes closed.