In envelopes of my collection box
My heartache rests beside my lover’s hair
Rusted pins and unused pens
Worn well and never used.
Could opening be the end?
I drove a long night
Through windy roads
Of Scotland’s y’Or
Great Bras d’Or,
And long wild grass on feral land:
Swan song I’ll sing again.
Head can see, alighted way
Matchsticks lite Borrower’s torch;
Down a cold tunnel with dripping water.
Lover’s name in a letter she carried.
From lines dragging down my wrists
I observed patience in a drop,
Dripping from my pointed forefinger
That rummaged odd bits discarded into
An old tin box.
I was looking for hope,
But instead found rusty nails
That left ocre upon my calloused tip,
Long ago since numb.
Dumping the remains onto the desk, I read out loud the words
That had been etched into the underside
By an uneven hand:
BOX 05 – EVIDENCE
These words sounded hallow,
And my thoughts once again followed
My wrists lines dripping
Onto the desk where an empty cartridge
Slowly rolled back and forth.
Ladders have begun
To disseminate my mental state,
Unpacked and re-packed
Long term storage boxes,
Dusty cardboard napkins.
Zigzagged metropolitan markets
With wicker baskets lined
With checkerboard napkins
And leftover spices
Under soiled paper napkins.
This night train is lonely
When the lights flicker just so,
I spend spare moments of memory
Re-reading the same four lines
Written on a folded square napkin.