My aim is to collect every thing
for this scrapbook. To cram
remnants of my movements
between its paper cover
and cardboard back. To feed it
the litter of my days
as if it were some hungry,
shelf-dwelling animal, eager
to masticate my present
and digest it as a past.
To anthologise the trivialities –
the tickets, the receipts, the reminders –
to plant them and wait for
their journeys, their purchases, their events
to grow into a leafy, memorial splendour.
To stand volumes, great libraries
of my fallen leaves and listen
to the silent regiment.
To one day feel the thrill,
its horror and elation in my blood’s tide
as I let go of one of those leaves,
putting a gaping uncertainty
between the pages.