To Buttons (first letter)

I’ve hoarded you and kept you close.
I’ve tried to understand it. You’re comforting and suggestive.

You proffer self-sufficiency.
You defy the perceived advantages and unspoken mystifications of concentrated wealth, proliferating complexity and technological mediation. It all happens in silence. It is still. It’s something in and of itself.
You’re not much and everything — an always dynamic array of perfect circles, a mind-boggling strata of variations, a trove of stories.
Each of you acts. Every instance is a performance — a metonymic intimation of possibility.
Working definitions of Art reside in your promise.
Histories of ideas accumulate in your gathering.
Each crowd is a multitude of loss and becoming.
You’re bestowed with a confused status. Your utility is subsumed by projected contemplations.
Each of you is rendered a representational raw material.
I collect you as if I were a hunter.