On the ledge Under window An oxing house An unbitten fly The table that holds them both, the wrangled carpet, the woolen threat of silver dark These are the things I am collecting for you. Beneath the mat A wrinkle Swan, aluminum folded Constructed by unbidden spaces A mess of crofted cups These are the things I am collecting for you. An assortment, A fashion of lines, Patterns woven by stems, Things that keep you in lists. A heavy heart, gloss twine, sweet chips The beauty in an apple core Melted glove, cold cross, sitting bucks A half-baked, half-risen shield These are the things I am collecting for you Not trash, not treasure, Something crafted, never made A plaque with which to wash your face Soap spurned by duck sauce glaze And enough silver to last for days. I hope one day you’ll give me thanks Above the mat Beneath the sun, Supported by skies: These are the things I am collecting for you.