The Secret Lives of Things

I am thinking of
the lives of forgotten Ferris wheels
and how the world revolves

because of the dream
of a barber sleeping in his chair.
I am wondering about the arguments

of scissors
or the disclosures of curtains.
I have listened to the epics

of children playing
in clouds of pollen.
This morning I woke up

and wondered if somewhere
there is a librarian
who only falls in love

with men named Dewey?
Or if stairs contemplate
the meaning

of varying degrees
of footsteps?
Maybe not.

I once overheard the deliberations
of empty rooms wondering what
they can do to dwell more consciously

in the spaces they enclose,
and eavesdropping I listened
to the murmuring of windows

trying to be less vulnerable
to the gaze of strangers.
The objects of the world

are always talking.
Like the time I was involved
by accident in a contest

of streets. Everything
was moving underneath me.
I was once accused by a debate

of church bells for not believing
in the providence
of empty chairs.

One day I was in the dream
of a hat playing a part
or was it the tragedy

of a suit?
Lately I have been contemplating
the secret lives of your fingers.

How they remember their lives
and yours in small gestures,
the way your thumb rests

against your palm,
or fingertips trace constellations
across a child’s hand.

Do you hear that? Off in the distance?
Please excuse the clamor.
The late-night freight train

is telling its loud, compelling story.