Noting

Nosing about
in the bedroom
and closet clutter,
I find myself scattered
across so many
scraps of paper:
a list, an old music sheet,
an alarming ramble
across a lined page.
In a box, college papers
I can't quite bring myself
to ditch, smell
of blue-penned library nights
in a room with many windows.

I think of the woman dead,
lying by a pile of wrapped gifts
and a television, on,
for nearly three years
before anybody noticed--
and feel, vaguely,
that a life belongs somewhere
other than on paper.
Or, if on paper,
ought always to be going
from one hot, sticky fist to the next.
Perhaps, there is still something
to be said for lonely notations.
One can suspend  them at arm's length
and uncross the eyes.