I’m a collector of interesting voices.

Ears:
my bits of tiny fly paper
pink and sensitive, scratched hard.
with elbows on wood, a table set
for Kings, Joshua, Judges,
Ruth.

And being so easily persuaded;
my fall is too hard and my rising too heavy
without your help.
Please, don’t let me speak. I repel even those who love
the lowest.
Just support me with your frame-
for here’s a setback in refinement,
as iron on iron no longer inspires.

I am isolated but for a costly few-
what have I given of myself?
please save me! I’m crying all the time!
I’m at the threshold of your door,
beneath your windowsill.
Let me inside!—or rather, let You inside of me!
You know where to saturate
and satiate completely.

I am that table, and God-
He was at one time, the tablecloth;
pouring out my mouth like a trembling April moth,
drawn to the light outside the door-
the drone entering my sticky tunnel;
binding to the walls with such strength.
But he’s not in there anymore.
oh, here’s just a platter of numb disciples portraying a band-aid.
no one is here.
No one is here to notice the unclothed table:
the silverware is gone, gone. And the dishes-
they are gone too. but the wine glasses;
the wine glasses, the wine glasses,
they are filled.