“THE MYSTERIOUS LOVE OF THINGS”
We have for them and them for us.
How easy it is to unseat any color
Into something that is no longer aware of itself
Or of us as we hurry through the labyrinths
Time gives us for a chance to know
Error or to know truth.
We thank ourselves for the blue
Of the ocean and it is not us at all.
It is the conversations between memory
And things learned by the body,
Burns on the hands, inside the mouth.
Admonitions of ourselves unaware
Yet constantly striking poses that
We may learn to handle those impulses
Where we will have to dance
And be impeccably pristine about it all.