Like everybody else who stumbles in
the flea market directionless of fuzzy focus
many bristle heads full of static
I was also blown here by a lukewarm wind.
And sometimes I will fall into a spell
my reflection in a vase I might desire
if only it were art-nouveau unchipped
if only it weren’t thrown too thick again.
And then I walk into a deeper realm
the next deal-of-dealers with his wares:
mixing bowl of postcards of the Grand Canyon
thrown onto the counter by this clown
who racked the vinyl crooners upside down
and topped off Nixon with a pageant crown.
Condolences to sets of three of five
survivors of neglect around these shelves,
the fly-catching panoramic disconnect.
Null of will celluloid depression amberina
orphaned now. No one’s Niagara Falls
nearly falling here with left-over patterns
of dishes neither old nor rare enough
to turn on their bellies. Who knows
they might crawl down the hill
into the river. Who knows
they are not waiting for adoption
like every remnant spirit in the cloth
that simply isn’t long enough or wide
enough for the table it could float.