Still Life.

Nothing is easier to grasp than life.
There; you grasped it. Now what comes
(like a brain, barrelling down pre-ordained
tracks) next? More of the same old stuff.

This morning, in the hall, next to the chifforobe
where napkins, placemats, and silver live,
leaning slightly back in my wicker chair,
there is this procession of blue-gray discretes

traveling somewhere between eye, air, and wall.
Another way to say it: there is always a quality of mind.
Something flannel in it, the procession. Cottony.
Like channels thoughts blurt from their worlds,

then recede into static, as when you run a radio
dial from ninety to one hundred and ten,
and around again. Not that anyone really
uses radios anymore, not the kind with dials.

They are become heirlooms, locked away
in the glass cabinet of yesterday. Dusty
in there, warm, varnished wood—you'd float
between slumber and congestion. Wires fray.

Rust creep like fungus up into you, corrosion.
Do thoughts settle in, when we aren’t around
to have them, as though for long journeys?