Statuary, by Patricia Traxler

Something has been growing
around here, something
is going on. I look for signs
that we are all being filmed
by slow cameras. Around us
beds go mad making themselves;
pots boil & empty & fill again
like magic; toilets convulse
& flush under cold porcelain;
Wall paint thins to a sigh.
Our underwear greys on us & hair
& skin cells deepen in the carpet
where we stand, stare,
drink tea: a decoction of our bones.