Rag picker

I am in this business of words,
Rag – picking them in midnights
Into a torn rag bag on my back.
I am a slumboy stooping to pick.

My bag is heavy with Helenisms
A treasure trove for fine drawing
Of rusty metal, in a delicate petal
For the alabaster neck of a queen
Dead in nose under desert stars.

At times I pick up sibilant words
That slip through my bag’s holes
Like starlight from a tattered sky.
Often those are pearls that were
Some body’s eyes from the sea.


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