A Well Meant Traveler

The little duckling on tour

In the gray offing billows the tide

It sings flux of the heart that aches

over the deep loss of cobalt

that once offered waves to brine

the red caverns beneath the sinew

currents that reflect the divide

of skin and bone, of air and dust

the mirror beneath the primordial sky

the great expanse spreading wide

the tears of the earth, the dying sun

no longer is there a glow, the colors fade

and beneath she is washing away,

her hopes, drifting to the illusions of time

she dares not swim up to her dreams

for fear she will drown in the clouds

before she can remember to breathe

and so she flies to the darkest floor

a bird of iridescent scale, nary a feather

nary a lung longing for anything more

A collector certainly is a poor wretch who thinks only of adding. He’ll never be happy with one object. He’ll always look for the remarkable object in a series. He’ll always want to have a set. We’re very far from purity. What’s important, is elimination. The idea of collecting is opposite to that of purity.