For a scrap, a coherent piece, of sheer luminosity.
What we find instead are pieces of lint and bugs scuttling past,
Shuffling into tiny dark crevices then blinking out,
Mothballs and cobwebs collect innocently within,
And a hint (a delusional whiff?) of lavender and oil.
So, in summers we, donning scuba gear and rubber gloves,
Will collect fading sheets of paper from old vacant houses,
Our feet carefully pushing aside rusty nails, broken glass,
And moldy bits of apples, chips and un-drunk whiskey.
We will search for hours to find some indicative item,
An old love letter, perhaps, or a page of dated newspaper.
After, we will pull our findings around us,
Pick through crumpled words with unknown meanings
And pin sentences from other's lives onto our doors.
Finding this repetitious lack in ourselves, we will
Painstakingly plunder stranger's souls.
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