Sleeping Dogs

Regrets and memories, tumbled recollections in a drawer of thought. Let be, unroused.

Packed in careful dust and sheltered from the grieving heartbeat, softly sleeping slowly aging.

Woken by a reckless touch they scatter, shooting feather-light to unknown landings hard and rocky.

Like wounds unchecked, they bleed afresh measuring a modern worth of blame. Unchained, they run.

No words can haul them back, no cry or crying blunts their yellowed claws, in packs they hunt old prey.

I will not share the most ungentle past and stir the dogs. The hand they bite is mine. Let be. Unroused.