A COLLECTION OF WEATHER

  There is going to be time to be webs,the starred weathervane,  plenty  of time to bebronze, or the machine that ruptures the pictureinto a puzzle, to be famine that coaxes angels out of their haze, so much time to be snail shells,lupine seeds, fragments of exoskeletons, examinedand pinned, rustling at the past.  Our records misplaced in creases of wind. We spent a lot of time wishing the cut pearcould return to itself without help, that its sectionsmight remember each other.  We were devastatedthat parts of us were loose, that a shape  could not survive without a shift.We spent a lot of time waiting for the city to lift,we spent a lot of time wishing for moneyand paint and someone to take care of. We wished ink into words, words to a mouthmouth to extended hand, that someone could not arriveAnd depart in the same moment.  We wished for a collection of weather: thunderclouds fastened beneath glass,wind swirling in mason jars—you wish I could remember feathers
without the birdcage, I wished you could fall asleep without the chandelier on.it is hard to achieve the quiet of an eyelashOr the swiftness of a fantailI wish for a cabinet full of color I wish for my ghost to bump into yourswhen we cannot mutter about darknesswhen you cannot play an instrumentto invoke anguish, when there is nothing left to tarnish, or taint.