The thing is gone. What remains is the shape it pressed
into whatever was soft enough to receive it.
An impression is not a memory — it has no idea
what made it, or why. It only knows the pressure
that was applied. The shape of what was here.
No. I
skull
down pillow, 3 a.m.
the head lifted hours ago
the pillow
still holds the weight
No. II
heel
wet sand at the tide line
walking away from something
the sand held it longer
than she did
No. III
ring
the bottom of a glass
set on this table
a thousand times
probably by the same hand
No. IV
two knees
grass in the churchyard
I came after
saw the shape
but not the reason
No. V
a crease
in the spine of the book
at page 84
someone returned here often enough
to leave a fold in the paper
No. VI
a body
in new snow
arms spread
the snow held it for two hours
then the sun
An impression is not a record. It is not a photograph.
It does not know who made it or what they intended.
It only knows: something was here.
Something pressed. Something left.
What remains is always
the outline of the absence —
never the thing itself.