Lives of Things


Beth Roberts

Disarray of the Still Life: you think you see light,
sifting through shadow, but if thought
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 leave
without our things. Alone in the house, radio off,
no relatives, we suspect them of both ambivalence

and evidence of us. Blemished minds:
who could guess a bracelet that fell from my wrist
would leave the human charm? What a dressed blue stain
would tell the watching world? What the clock told time?