Objects around us are emitting light, transgressing,
are discrete
repositories—
tropes, backdrops, ruination, lairs.
Objects around us are blank and seamless,
suffer from an arbitrariness,
are habitual or habitually
absconding.
Objects around us can be carefully etched
or stitched on top of our skins,
dismantled and placed in the trunk of a cab.
Objects around us are Oh my God.
Objects around us shimmer in air-colored suits,
in flesh-colored suits,
are waiting to be caressed.
They breakdance when we turn away.
Objects around us depend on fracture and fragment,
are picked clean, derelict—
shudder
like hostages without blindfolds
or tout survivability
by trilling in the wet grass.
Objects around us are durable,
glow relentlessly
as if they’re actually immortal.
Objects around us are not strangers.
They are the ruins
in which we drown.
Objects around us are expecting again,
blanket things with feathers
to offer refuge
but tremble anyway.
Objects around us wrap us in compassion,
sing an ode to something,
take the long way home.
Objects around us are no substitute for anything.
Objects around us moan.
Objects around us wander the aisles,
take everything of worth,
flee, exit, make off, vamoose.
Objects around us dismantle the city.
The doors are wide open. Go in.
from CopiaFind it in the library
Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2014
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.