To be left over is to be transformed.
When next approached, the subjectivity
will have shifted, the tastebuds
and ocular mechanisms less prone
to the pleasures of the not-yet-leftover
the first time it was experienced.
A shiver is the body receding
and not having enough room
to get away from itself.
As though we had invisibility cloaks
we could activate at will.
Switch off our presence in any situation.
When its wire is tripped, the foghorn blares.
The foghorn anchored to its beam with metal bolts.
It will never go inside a house, even though
its steam puffs up in such domestic shapes.
It offers heads of presidents, horses,
machine guns, buicks. The foghorn knows
the world we live in is alarming,
but it feels no kinship with the siren.
The foghorn's vitality depends on
the integrity of the vessel
on which it perches
like a parrot, aware
that the subjectivity it guards
may indeed be dangerous,
but it is a sublime danger.
The low, desolate,
of the foghorn
is the sound of a subjectivity
calling out in the quiet whiteness,
look out, I'm about to arrive on your shores.
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