You collect bottles that other people have filled with marbles, fly wings, or dirt from Gallop, New Mexico resting on dirt from Thibodaux, Louisiana resting on dirt from Bridgeton, Maine. Only where the stacks touch, blurs like the texture of the scars on my arm compared to the smooth your skin. You collect bottles of feathers. You collect bottles of olives. You collect bottles of blood but it's the bottles you want to collect. Open them up. Pour the contents behind the compost heap. No one will look there. Stink masks stink. The inside of your house is very clean. You have small fingers and stand on your toes to line the shelves with all you collected. You have done it for years. Suspension. The glass is not really solid. You learned in school before you knew it from breaking and burning houses to blackened ground. Even if I write about those emptied bottles, those panes I see through: the warp won't be apparent.
