Things, they are no fools. They tableau.
The trees pose, too, as the yogini know.
And my trousseau of objects rearrange
themselves each night. They want to be still-
lives, to be of record. The time they change
changes because letting me watch would
sacrifice their modesty. The slender jug
switches shelves with the Bakelite bowl.
A landscape of short strokes, dense pigment
gazes at a sepia silhouette: what are you?
My lipsticks jockey for position, wise
to my predilection for the front row.
It is drafty in here. A strange breeze, low
on the Beaufort Scale, deranges the interior.