Collecting

You see me as breathing
—but I am doing no such thing.
I am collecting,
heaving,
pulling and tugging my skin
outward into wings.

I am collecting all the rain,
all the sin,
all the bitterness and broken ones.

I am collecting fire;
through the holes in every head
I am drinking up all the dead.
I am lapping up the milk and honey
of loves and desires and folding time over
and swallowing all the fuming spires.

I am dabbling in
something
beyond the nova of inward taking.

I am crushing,
rushing,
flushing all the emotion down
and deepening,
thickening the darkness;
heartsickness I eat
and I wear every bloodstained gown.

I am witnessing
and walking
all the night and light.

I am collecting,
ejecting myself
into the core of souls
and bearing,
fairing all the horizons as a voyageur—
I sink and devour ships
into my maelstrom mouth,
and slip my lips over minds
to touch,
and strangle,
and rebirth
every atom into being.

I am collecting.
So at my end
I may spread
my two hands wide
and curve
all ten of heaven’s choirs
into each fingertip and
unto me.

Only when I bend some god
shall I then
lastly,
finally,
breathe.

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