To things we are ghosts, soft shapes
in their blindness that push and pull
a warm touch tugging on a stuck drawer,
a face glancing by in a mirror
like a pebble skipeed across a passive pond.
They hear rumors of us, things, in their own rumble,
and notice they are not they were in the last
and feel, perhaps, themselves lifted by tides
of desire, of coveting, a certain moisture
mildews their surfaces, and they guess that we have
They decay, of course, but so slowly; a vase
or mug survives, a thousand uses. Our succesive
ownerships slip from them, our fury
flickers at their reveerie's dimmest edge.
Their numb solidity sleeps through our screams
"La solidez sorda de las cosas duerme a través de nuestros gritos" (o algo así, menos patatero). Podría ser el inicio de un gran relato... Grande Updike y grande usted, Mr. Singer. You're the Master of the Spoiler, you're indeed, for God's sake!
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