Collection

Most men collect wood, bricks, spring crops, soil,

then build homes and gardens. Afterwards,

they become windows and stare for months.

 

Domestic men collect bottles, glass and plastic,

kitchen sinks, countertops, martini to shot glasses.

They fashion rafts, life jackets, sails, and oars.

Then pray for good winds and row.

 

The heartbreaker steals everything,

sticks, stones, lighters, cotton, vodka and syrup,

apples, carnival tickets, hot dogs, salt, wings and flowers.

 It was the finest picnic I’d seen.  

 

Me, well, I’ve travelled very far

for my beloved. Collecting what I could remember,

which proved in the end, counterfeited—I  

couldn’t recognize her.

 

I threw a torch into my wilderness—

 

First it devoured the forest I planted,

then the ships with her cargo,

the cities went next.

 

alas the fire smoldered me.

 

So then who am I now?

 

If her skin is all honeycombs, blue silk,

and ice, then I must be an anchor,

a paw, a kerosene lamp,
someone intrigued,

if not possessed.