But Key Breaks Are Imaginary, and Might Have Been Inserted Anywhere

The collection, if so called,
Begins in thin air, dangling
Unanchored lines, and it ends
With another collection, a spare—
Lines, dashes, letters, numbers—
The spaces indicating
Each temporal interval.

It is not much an object—
More a fragmentary cache
Of more fragmented objects—
Not so much a diagram
Of, for example, a tree,
As a bouquet of pressed flowers,
Containing information,

But awaiting some meaning
That only you can give them,
Anthologia. Collect
Them all. Can they even be
Asserted as singular?
Here they are, the gathering,
Scattered waste loved together,

Although one line is spinning
By mere balance at the end of a shelf,
And a few others tilt up
On each other as spandrels,
Pointless elaborations
Made essential for support—
And here are crossbeams, meaning.