The blue bag by the door finally got emptied.

Sleeves to somebody's cousin. The wrist strap to lost property, unclaimed,
because it was never lost. Two unworn pairs to a shelter.

What was left fits in one hand:
chalk, the belt, the pair with the hole in it,
and four pages folded twice that I have not altered
since a spring whose year I could not give you.

The Book of the Merchant — Return 50:9