i am a
collector of instance
i deal in
contraband moments and places and times
my days are
spent hiding sunlight in armoires and dust beneath sand
i can never
quite close the doors fast enough;
constructing
dioramas of Atlantis at high tide
while color
escapes cracks in the lighthouse walls
i am the
demon who left the fruit in the box for Pandora to find
i search
for vessels:
glass,
wicker, plastic
to hide
things which yearn to be opened
so strongly
they refuse to close
and go on
to vanish in a collision of symbols and sound
each moment
a raindrop becoming a hailstone
plummeting with bent heads and prayers for
snow
as piety
rushes outward with a dull hiss.
once in a
long lifetime things start to blur
as the
Colombia collides with the Hindenburg
and a
hurricane hits Appomattox
and i'm
suddenly left with an attic
full of
tightly sealed emptiness
