It's been a while now, I collect
the things that others throw away.
When sun burns flowers into specks I
sweep the remnants on my tray.
I watch the wax of candles burning.
At night I see them melting down,
and drops, like summer yearly turning,
I catch them lest they hit the ground.
Of every ruined dwelling wall
the bricks I set for more precision, I
put them back to raise a home for
all the ageing homing pigeons.
From every past event that was
I pull apart my own reply and
take it as a new surprise that
on that day I was alive. I have
it all together tied,
by hand I organize the atoms. I'm
born again or else just die amid
the slew of useless fathoms.
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