i revel in the space between revile and revere.
i file things next to thoughts and take a step
back to take a look at the bookcase. A bookcase
is a thing like any other thing in that it resembles
a number of things. the first is its own reproduction or reflection.
The bookcase, insofar as it believes
that it can believe, does not believe
that it resembles its reflection, as it has a self-sense that cannot be
withdrawn from interiority, enclosure, from shoulders
arching around the frame of a torso, and the resultant hollow
on the reverse side. flatpacked, a body is a body, but a shelf
has more to it than that. taking a phrase at face value,
old flames take to a fence and say: now who’s old!
we walk out to the yard and lift our palms to the heat, but know
that tomorrow this will seem bad. tomorrow, our hands will
still ache with cold and the neighbours will be out for blood.

Letting down the shutters, the cold air seeps from our mouths
and we huddle in the corner of the room,
now fools, drowning in regret. we stew an ibis
and take to the table, as egrets fly past.