The collection

an encyclopedia of the mind

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I’ve put all my memories here

There, on that shelf, you see the preserved ones – very fine, in stained glass jars

if you listen

They make a sort of music.

I can’t let them out, but here, the bottled ones

I drink when I am lonely; they last, too, they don’t dissipate

at three o’clock in the rain. I’ve boxed some up, they were too large for the shelves

If you open this box, you can smell the sea.

Here are the pickled ones, which I don’t like to think about, they went sour

but I didn’t want to throw them away, not yet, maybe next week, perhaps in six months –

Some have been here for twenty years.

Some are frozen, others powdered,

some canned, still slick and heavy –

And these are the glass ones.

Don’t you see? Memories so pretty

I daren’t look at them, I froze them, pierced them with pins

made them still, then I looked at them one last time

Before the glass went down – they don’t decay

And, I’m told, the colour is still very fine.

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