JOSETTE #5
My steepled hands, in grace, will not cage time.
Look inward, backward, a shelved collection
Behind glass, ordered, needing protection
From now. Now is this moment’s dust and grime.
Let’s admire my collection, make sublime
March of figurines in stone succession—
As though predestined for earthly mission
Within my ancient Father’s crowded time.
But these only tell “my” story, an ending
About a fiction grafted onto the new,
The mist of presence always dissolving
The flesh and blood, changing will into do,
Morphing collecting into becoming.
“My” story is the moment I touch you.
