2xl: 2016-01-30

And there’s a collector.

And the collector takes this butterfly and this book and this bear and not that butterfly and that book and that bear.

And this butterfly eyes the collector as if he’s the silver pin.

And this book longs to be opened again.

And this bear wonders why, if beauty limps, it has perfectly stitched eyes and symmetrical legs like all the rest.

And the collector arranges himself carefully along one edge of his immaculately made bad.

And the collector worries at what he’s missed.

And the collector sees their outlines as clearly as a tongue tracing a missing tooth.

And the collector seeks a solvent suitable to the painted-over door.

And the collector’s heart, dejected, pumps silt.

And the collector’s scourge slakes his skin’s unappeasable thirst.

And the collector sometimes knows less about the things he’s fleshed around than an oyster knows its own pearl.

And the collector sometimes forgets what he has and can’t find what he remembers.

And the collector classifies and codifies, cossets and coddles.

And the collector feels the heft of the supposed hinges of an iron maiden.

And the collector sifts his many dictionaries for different definitions of “possession.”

And the collector thinks of enchantment as a kind of occupation by orderly rows of toy soldiers

And the collector longs to be opened again.

And the collector sees they have real, recently red-edged, weapons.

And the collector thinks he must have them, each and every one.

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