the Still Life: you think you see light,
sifting through shadow, but if
could move an olive over, slightly, unsightly,
you might see
more. So we are moved,
we eye our things.
The beautiful ones look back.
They speak to us. Indeed, we will not
without our things. Alone in the house, radio off,
relatives, we suspect them of both ambivalence
and evidence of
us. Blemished minds:
who could guess a bracelet that fell from my
would leave the human charm? What a dressed blue stain
tell the watching world? What the clock told