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Ernest Hilbert
COVER TO COVER
Every passion borders on the chaotic, but the
collector’s passion borders on the chaos of
memories.
—Walter Benjamin
I don’t collect them. They just accumulate,
Tower higher into shoddy columns,
Climbing weirdly like crystal formations
Or pillars of coral. The thought of their weight
Crushes, their long summers and snow. They weigh tons.
They slide onto the stove, under the fridge,
Into the tub. They prop open windows,
Serve as coasters. They have traveled with me
And slept beside me. They fashion a bridge
To vanished rooms, sorrows, and suns. Lord knows
Why I haul them from city to city.
I slip them together like bricks. They become a wall,
My greed, my fears, everything, nothing at all.
–from Rattle #32, Winter 2009
Tribute to the Sonnet
July 1st, 2010 at 3:49 pm
Does seem like passion borders on the chaotic, but the mess it leaves in its wake can sometimes be as dreary as whatever previous structure it exploded.