I gather my life

each morning

as I wake

and sometimes

this collection

seems ill fit —

a strange fruit

 

curious that these

of odd origins

–would still

be with me

 

what is it

that compels

the gathering up

the sorting through

as if there was

an actual collection

of things

 

for don’t we

arise fresh & new

each day?

can we not

but do that?

 

what accrues

at our feet,

around ankles

recollections

 

what strange

chance that is

as if things

are tethered

tight to me

that I have no

real choice

about –somehow

 

even trying on

this form

these quick sentences

one sentence

too a sentence

 

enteric gossip

things left behind

undigested

left unresolved

festering

only in the way

that things

kept shut in

will do