Eyes,
Not turning away from the phone,
Waiting for each word // to appear on the screen.
Today is not the workday,
But every day is a workday for me.

On the streets, on walls, // on screens,
On shoes, on the ground, on maps,
On faces, on canvases, // in the sky —
Those squares,
Arranged in rows depicting // all traces of life,
Growing in memory, combining into new shapes.

It is in teachers' words, // the ashtray under the stairs.
It is those coffee cups looking down // from the rooftop terrace,
The stains that don't move // on the street.
It is the distant light // on the edge of the building,
Something we can only imagine // but don't know the name of,
Points of light, forever there.
They are all moving,
All capable of movement, // always moving.
Never obscured by hands or clouds.

Those on the terrace,
Together with the heat from pipes,
Have already been painted, // colored, named, illustrated,
Although they themselves remain colorless.
Lying asleep on the heating pad, // close to the window,
One can see the temperature // of those activities.

In the light,
Even when the sun is obscured,
It will forever sink down, // yet it remains —
The most basic, primitive structure,
The only thing I cannot help // but believe in.

Still Life