They will rise from the river
clogging faucets and stairs,
occupying in every house, in every room,
in every mind,
the place that does not correspond to them.
A cold touch that transforms reality
into something unfamiliar,
into an igneous graze - like lit matches
dotting up the darkness-
A humid tender light that responds
to everything we are not,
nor will be
everything that has happened,
(or perhaps is happening)
behind the slippery curtain of time.
The possibilities of objects are infinitely
quicker than our senses
and they hop around inside closets
on shelves and cups of hot coffee.
Our task is to send them back,
To separate them out from daily life,
to confine them to live only in the river.
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