collector of instance

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