THINGS WE WANT TO TOUCH

Nothing exists outside us:

there reservoirs dry up

just when we thirst

for silence, when nettles

become a healing herb, and the cities

return the dust to the nearest cemetery.

All those black-and-white flowers on the wallpaper

of the homes we’ve abandoned

blossom among impersonal histories

just when our words

become a non-transferable heritage,

and the things we want to touch

some other person’s presence.

We’re like a shoe carried off

in a scurry of stray dogs,

we hug each other

like close-twined cables through the hollow bricks

of houses where no one lives.

And it’s been like this for a long time now – nothing

exists outside us:

sometimes we call each other

sun,light, angel.