There is something of the accidental,
the eye of the collector, inadvertent

and endeared to the small, odd gift.
Perhaps I was anchored

and the lanterns lit my limbs
like dried sticks, deciduous

and prone to tiny thrushes
lining the rungs of my ribs.

Now all the dresses are worn
and unwashed, their hems dwindling

to floss, and something to be said
of obsession, this locked box,

and voices rattling the glass.
I was a footnote,

a honey comb.
I was the muddy bottom beneath the ruin.

The point at which all the objects
rename themselves,

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.