You collect them,
their eyes and their teeth,
their births and bar mitzvahs
Thier pulling on and taking off
of pants and aprons,
their children and their children's soft songs.
their bombs and their bones
their baked goods
all neatly ordered in their
oaken kitchen cabinets.
You collect thier flags
and their time
their pens and the ink that spilled
their oratory and the ink still hiding.
You collect them as we collect you
your rumpled skin and chicken-scratch caography
And we, you and I, exist like some Escher painting
two outstretched hands trying to file one another away.