Rilke says now it is time that gods came walking out of lived-in Things
like this book, the one who takes these words
into its skin—sloppy tattoos, and all the books
upon my shelf, a dusty thousand toothed grin
like the bed who holds us, my lover and me
in its palm, and the softest offering of birds
a heavy down upon us, gentle disembodied flock
like the paper lamp he clicks off every night
he and yellow light looking into my eyes just before
dark silence takes the room against its chest
like the woodstove with its hunger
its winter mouth, its flickering tongue
licking at what’s left of trees to warn us
like the truck, the roaming growl of his truck
announcing him for miles across the foot
of this mountain, a voice delivering him to me
like the secondhand couch we once argued about
now a wide lap of ease, worn out by our bodies
sinking toward the center gap, each other
like the convection oven god who serves
us orange salmon on blue plates, or the black pan
who kisses our green chicken eggs good morning
disrobed of the mundane, walking out, what more
could such gods do or say or want, these gods in Things
who love in such excruciating detail they stay
