Pictures fall from her collection,
coupons to the city’s attractions
picked from carousels at the library,

James Joyce and the jaguar
look out with equal stares, heads
tilted together in her handbag’s

cauldron. She might collect
doors into demolished houses,
from skips, if they fit in her bag.

She would construct into sculptures,
cast-out wires and wood pallets,
but her hands aren’t strong enough

now, if they ever were. It is not
clothes or food she is after, it’s the
makings of something more, gates

into elsewhere, a whole world
crumpled at the bottom of her bag
ready to be drawn out, transformed.