These things,
An asteroid belt gracefully circling the sun.
These things each have their poles,
pulse magnetic,
Resonate in liquid nothingness.
These things,
lost along the riverbank.
Trunks and portmanteaus from shipwrecks
or abandoned,
Each painted and numbered
for identification.
These things,
Mothwinged.
Little household gods
that keen and ring always
when the light is quiet.
These things,
embrace the tremulous thought,
the eel that slips
between dark water.
These things,
shells in the surf,
clatter against the shore with every wave.
(The poet is a seashore dweller.)
Hold them.
