You prepare an eulogy
for chairs tables and houses
stones spires and sands.
You personify the past
and can think past personifications.
You strain your eyes
see the boy who shivers in the rain.
You make him malleable.
You get that you're not to change him,
you're to make him changeable.
You believe, like I do,
that the tree cries when its fruits fall
on our path;
that in the process it denies, on our path,
the plausibility of plausible deniability.
You hear my confession:
that between my frothing lips
truth lies with lies
like an absurdity to keep me awake;
a brush on a sleeping canvas.
You, too, offer oblations to the moon,
like a farmer to the earth
on which he plants,
because the moon is your safe;
the mirror you locked your jail in.