Poetica: My culture of things

What I take, takes me,

shouts out my identity.

What I own owns me.


Come, visit my home.

Where you sit and what you see

paint more than I say.



"You've got so much stuff!"

Writ you well, my form you lay

lie all about me.


I don't need to tell

the story of who I am.

It’s live around you.

Ask me where I've been?
Answers hang on every wall,
 my cartography.

But when I took it, the fine swine became mine, no...?

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