however many beautiful objects
on previously cleared tables or dusted shelves
and to the others before them that have become trash
far away within piles of anonymous height and only the past to define them
locked within a chest perhaps buried near a tree
living on as close as the sides of streets

and the dusted objects learn soon how to recognize the lives of models
to grind their teeth against the place that they haven't held
and the common safety to breathe them out as though allergens

yet patient and protective of the prime they do endure
on platforms and on panels and the furrowed brows to dust them
deathly afraid impatient as to how to throw it away soon
concerned as to the replacement after something else is gone

and the soul reduced to an earthly possession on sale
the new ones manufactured and ask for the rest to leave
as fearful as anything it lives as the object dies
it lives on a kitchen counter to be admired for a short while
and passes from a house to an unsaid something else
with constructions to occur without anyone
and with nothing that will stop