I will mention the intoxication of objects now...

The dime that is unaccounted for,
lying down upon the floor,
and unnoticed until I felt it
cold upon my feet.

This knife I used to cut into
a red apple, I heard it scream,
still sits on this desk
next to a celtic charm bracelet that I've
been meaning to wear.

You could laugh
at the humming of
electricity in this house
that moves itself.
This house with invisible broken
glass upon its floors.

This prison without doors,
surrounded by millions of
tiny universes that lay
on and underneath our skin.

To us,
these are also objects,
unknown and veiwed with plain eyes.

A needle that pulls thread
it mends,
just for you..
But do we appreciate this
fixture of inanimateness
that serves us in death?

Yes.
Because I describe them all
inside of my head.

These roses have been dead for months now,
touched by dusty hands and
noses full of lust.