There will be judgements, yes. There will be judgements. And when they arrive — meaning, the dissemblers — they will be taken aback by the paucity of socks and the profligate spoons. They’ll be taken aback by the rocks lined on every windowsill, each for a name gone by. They’ll find little in the manner of clues. They’ll spend weeks in the columns of sheaves, chronologically disarrayed. They’ll sort the dishes and towels, these men in their coats and longer faces. Question is, will they find the guitar pick leaned against the candlestick that, on its particular day at its particular time, bends the sun to a floorboard deep within the room under which I’ve placed a small silver bell — all I’ve cached for tomorrow.