The Collected Works
waves coming at us their long arms
hands fingers indistinct
subtly shifting between literal and metaphoric
wave-sound seabird-sound tracking each other
scrambled before time and consciousness sort them
although they remain scrambled as we settle
shedding our ordering obsession, entering the scramble
uncollected, having lost nothing
Sands once were rock, waves have been rain
on other faces dripped from other roofs
arctic ice for thousands of years
broken off as bergs drifting melting
airwaves from elsewhere nudging their neighbors
into a low hum they don’t hear except as us
They the uncollected, we the collected works
we hold each other as is, worded or wordless
we their hearing and seeing, they our unsought unknowing
The Dog Star 
2 Responses to “The Collected Works”
“They the uncollected, we the collected works
we hold each other as is, worded or wordless
we their hearing and seeing, they our unsought unknowing”
Terrific.
Thanks, Craig. Try as we might, we can’t escape unknowing.