I'm collecting these poems like cranes,
Flying back to where they were folded,
Where the wind blew them from my arms.
I'm adjusting these poems like so many lenses,
Focusing on the minute minutes,
Twisting my eye like a Stevenson character.
I'm filing these poems like taxonomy
Decorating each one with dead Latin,
Asking them nervously to stand still while I count.
I am weighing these poems like cantaloupe
Using balance beam hands to hold
Both them and the memory they're worth.
I'm cutting these poems like nails
Trying hard not to rip them with my teeth,
No one wants blood at the cuticle.
I'm writing these poems like a ghost,
Face full of fingers, staring in foggy windows,
Kissing my words on the glass.