.
       I’m picking up words:
                —like trash
                like flowers or old chewing gum
                or empty cans—
       they're absolutely everywhere. Hand-me-down ones.

       I'm picking up words
                —thrown like paper wads
                given up like old habits—
       everywhere I stop.

                                              My closet's fair stuffed with
                                              failed syntactic adventures,
                                              fortunes of vocabulary
                                              scorned and censored,
                                              regurgitated turns of phrase
                                              and faux fur gratitudes.


       They clog the drains, stick in my hair.
       They’re raining from the altitude
                                        (of office buildings).
       I'm picking worn words off the sidewalk,
                                    —off living room floors
       where families have no need of them, anymore.


                                              I've captured preposterous
                                              cad, aegis, and tome,
                                              chimaera, dysphemism,
                                              and countless more...

       I'm picking up words,
                 —like old sweaters
                 that my sister didn't want;
       collecting words,
                 —like the lovely leaves
                 autumn trees drop;
       hoarding words,
                —like the miser
                saves gold for rainy days;
       storing words
                —so if I see you
                I’ll have a few


       to say.


                                                                                                                                           .