There is something of the accidental,
and endeared to the small, odd gift.
and the lanterns lit my limbs
and prone to tiny thrushes
Now all the dresses are worn
to floss, and something to be said
and voices rattling the glass.
a honey comb.
The point at which all the objects
their tiny imaginary lives.
The above poem is part of a series of pieces inspired by Cornell called at the Hotel Andromeda. I am interested in the fetishism of objects and ephemera, both as a poet and as a visual artist.