Woolgathering

Crazy booty I often inventoried in the dead of night

I answer
I do not wish to own

Nothing — an old spoon, a rudder, the remains of a walkie-talkie

I open my bundle and dump the contents in the furrows of the earth

for caught within my little gem was more misery and hope than one could fathom

Little droplets that somehow became gems gathered by beggars who trade them for rice

I had a ruby. Imperfect, beautiful like faceted blood. It came from India where they wash up on the shore

This uncommon bundle has always been my comfort, my happy burden

I have always possessed a kind of knapsack, if nothing more than a piece of cloth or skin tied in a knot. My sack, worthy companion, produces, when opened, a world defined by its contents — fluxion, unique, beloved

You are not forgotten.
That’s his word