The Silence of Our Things

I evacuate the traces
Of a self-contained plague
From the places a thousand faces know well.

They think,
A lot, too,
About the dust that gathers upon the covers
We treat as transparent truths –
Where the intricate importances hide

Needless to say,
I am searching in the spaces between everything
And emptiness
or what appears on my severed and simple tongue –
Like clouded echoes along the corridors of my consciousness.

Some things,
My things
And yours,
are destined by the doors of design
To hide forever
Behind pretty alliterations

A closet full of lots of letters
And little unnamed noises

3 thoughts on “The Silence of Our Things

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