From the thrift shop & parking lot
with its cordoned collected stuff
a whittled asp, a small teapot,
the lot that’s not enough.
This book, & this, & this & that
by old friends, teachers, rising stars,
the memoir of a gay packrat
attuned to a blue 3-stringed guitar.
There’s time enough for loss & dearth
your bones picked clean & pockets pillaged.
Dispossession is the work of earth.
No wealth survives the final tillage.
While minimalists may live on air,
we’ll eat our meals on earthenware.
The term emerged, a shared geometric
that underlies a gridded plane,
at the same distance from biogenic
as absence from a protein chain.
The repetition makes for pattern
if not divine, not quite profane,
with magnetic moment akin to Saturn
that underscores the utterness of space,
its shifting fields, dimensions that turn
a back, a leaf, a wheel, a face –
the parallels & axes define
& deliver, dissolve as they trace
the spatial expectations of breath
the ordered design of pulse before death.