Fisted Glove Of A Thousand Islands Poem by gregory collins

Where birds fly from time to time. Like
to tie back our hair along the horizon,

helps us creep across a garden before
it puts on its clothes, and the sunset

is such nonsense we never so much as meet.
Know that while i am in this world,

i am only a stone's throw away from being
strung around your neck; From being one of the beads

begging God, this is the necklace. This is the tear
that collects in puddles, this is for me forever new

just as good as drinking, and i have no wish
to go home at all, no wish for the soft wet dreams of the sea.

My life is short enough already, to bring me old age
speaking the words of youth. Speaking of playing games

without the moon aware of summer, without the moon
shedding tears that crosses the sky and blows me a letter:

A letter reading, 'think only of my love' -
The fisted glove of a thousand islands.

The little clump that outweighs my heart
in the breaking dawn. In the silence of my mother's shadow,

where i cut light off along the way.