2565232157_d4b6eb6934A Prisoner of Things

If only this novel were trashier:
if only the hour were true.

The goal here is to burn,
says the sun

or to lose your place, says the wind.
Or to sleep until

the umbrellas go home,
until the waves decide.

The goal here is to sit here,
says the chair.

Where were you?
asks the hero on every page,

he who spent all winter
killing everything—

oh look, the kittens in the dunes
have caught a mouse.

The goal here is to embrace
nothing, says the air.

If you knew what you wanted
how would you be surprised,

says the sunset.
The seagulls fly back to nostalgia.

You only think you know,
says the sand.

Hot sand! says the sand.
Choose me, says the wave.