I once did some hard time living with my eventual ex and his parents. One day I noticed a few simple items collected behind my ex’s bedroom door, and somehow those items kept calling for my attention. I’d ask the ex why he had those things, what they were for, but he’d only shrug. Apparently they’d just been there forever. I’d look at them from time to time and wonder.
One day it occurred to me to invoke and apply the names of these items.
A box in a bag, a bag in a box, and a bag in a box, with rocks.
An object poem, hiding in plain sight! The whole impulse toward -- and inevitability of -- language itself revealed! I went racing to the eventual ex, who proved once more why he’d become an ex by remaining utterly unimpressed.
A box in a bag, a bag in a box, and a bag in a box, with rocks.
Those words and that discovery uplift me to this day. (And yes, somehow I’m still single.)
One day it occurred to me to invoke and apply the names of these items.
A box in a bag, a bag in a box, and a bag in a box, with rocks.
An object poem, hiding in plain sight! The whole impulse toward -- and inevitability of -- language itself revealed! I went racing to the eventual ex, who proved once more why he’d become an ex by remaining utterly unimpressed.
A box in a bag, a bag in a box, and a bag in a box, with rocks.
Those words and that discovery uplift me to this day. (And yes, somehow I’m still single.)
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