Knew this man who Collected twigs.

Knew this man who Collected twigs.

Knew this man collecting twigs. Knew him at a higher place of learning where we ate figs. Would make a twig bowl and put moss in it. Fill it up with porcelain eggs. Place it on a knife and fork in tree. Near the crossed road. Never does the same thing twice. But he knew a woman who collected chicken bones.

All day she would pick at them. Removing fat. Last bits of meat. She'd reshape it and rebuild and re-construct them in a reassembly. Add plaster to it. Build around it like a flesh. Glaze it till it shone like skin.

Knew someone collecting coloured glass. Bits that shone there in the shale. By the seaweed crisp as bacon. By the rock smooth as whale. Someone glues the glass to brown felt hats. Glues them to old rusty cars laying in ditches where blackened trees resembling sticks are backdrops to old black and white movies lit by lightening. Shopping - carts appear through surfaces like cages. Where ducks wander into bushes. To reappear and waddle/cross the potholed road - to the factory of retrieval for this coloured glass.

Knew someone who collected stories. Retold - remolded stories. Older than memory. From around very large circles. To be released in squares. Set free in alleys. Let loose down side streets. Left to collect dust in a cul-de-sac. To be walked over. To be trod upon.

Known people with old messed attics. Full to brimming with ancient maps/aquariums full of freeze-dried cats. A singing battery fish that moved as it sung. A hanging bat. A dried out plant. A broken mousetrap. An unfinished story. A broken record. A balsa-wood monoplane. A trapdoor to the stars.