Never Said

If  you were to stop today no one would notice. Things that have never been said would be hung from thick boughs, or reduced to a nub, with thoughts lined up on a shelf, facing east, to move, on wheels, toward the open window, 
where the occasional planet stretches out or changes positions in sleep, as objects on the wall mirror two people looking at something in common, and by that act make themselves one, to swell within all points in breadth or height, until what’s full seems empty, and then somewhat unbelievably the door clicks open and there they stand and the boxes fall open and out they come inflating themselves before the vein runs cold and starlight probes them for a foothold, according to whichever features are dominant, 
spiraling out of the black sky, or loosed from a shell, like heavenly birds twisting into sentences, miles and miles apart, tracing a dotted line into a future whose distance from life is constant, rising up to press forward, but not to any great extent, simply enough to register the sensation of drifting along as in a dream, which hereby declines to accept any broader role within a world implied by a single belief, to work back and forth, then further and further away, postponing fulfillment or ignoring it to make elongated shapes with rough tools, and in silence of weather sift for forms, reticula, nets of limbs moving sideways, thin above our heads, like faint clouds.