Baskets made of plastic
ribbons that hold their shiny
colors forever,
a doll's head goes
floating by blemished
by barnacles or the insult
of oil.
She is the first one, then
a flotilla of other drifts along
every type of doll faces
and bodies, all of them are
besmirched, scored,,burned,crazed,
until they become the same
mottled color no matter how they all started.
Isn't it odd, how these
accidental objects are
clotted into groups like
this,
fleets of flip flops, nations of toothbrushes,
and continents of Styrofoam
from candidate white,
shining as to hurt the eyes
to grey murky
wanting to lose itself, but
still holding its shape.
There is drifting,
coming together
floating apart
sinking down to
some place that
crushes or embraces
God the Father in heaven sits
in his dory
next to you
I'll give you,
he says,
something to
cry about.
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