Hiraeth Series Poem #36
36 On Mondays the collector wakes up one-day-only-paranoic to all he has gathered so far - each matchbox, brass button, fountain pen, old map and jazz vinyl. He grabs his eyes and stare outside. Downstairs I live in rent - someone who collects open spaces fitting for the hearts missing. I would have stooped to pick those up, but the process of it feels like pulling out the magnets from an iron door The little plops make me shiver - those noises of hiraeth. I hear the bloodshed in the collector's screams - "Nevermore nevermore." I should shout that he is not the only one. Look through my open spaces. Everything is on fire like some ants underneath a child's magnifier.