And now the objects return. Chief interests
of their divine secular lives no longer
idle. Thought anticipates them, but they aren’t

Sad storm of objects becoming things,
the objective correlative, tired of me
as I am of it. I embody everything it hates

Reclaimed from brushwood,
from coarse rank grass interspersed
with stagnant bog water,

The round white knob
on the dresser drawer—

Consider the white space
between words on a page, not just

I don’t read.
I read Rilke and bleed.

          The light that changes
the light that goes out

She was thinking it was time
to be naked again, to take something off

It’s nice to have a lake to love me,
that can see under all my disguises—
where there is only animal survival

In the dream,
a priest said
it was time