A half-empty glass of water sinking
a dried lemon slice, a fingernail
curled inwards like a shell dragged

ashore by the beaten sea. The rickety
globe that’s been spun too many times—
the wind shifts and its axis slips, like rain-beads

snaking down a waterproof jacket
soaked limp. Having neglected gravity,
a doctor’s scale is compensating

with brochures about sinus infections.
Shoelaces binding the tongue
of black-and-white striped sneakers,

a mood-ring warning the palm-sweat
it might be jealous of an earache. The last
key cast by the world’s most famous locksmith

only unlocks the birdcage of the widow
who lives alone with her husband’s
ghost. The picture frame that came

with a photo of a faceless family
and the double-stick tape that held
that photo in place, un-stuck—

an opaque mirror, the skin-
thin film of scalded milk
and the outline of a bruised pear.