The yellowing projections of the sun
throw tropical shadows on the wall.
Below, the furnace can be heard
getting ready like a teapot.
A shirt on a hook rests
against the door like a tired lover,
its back to its companion.
In museums the paintings
argue with each other like inmates.
The fuse box has lined up its rows
of practical jokes, each marked
with red and black tape.
Houseplants are like houseplants.
The strands of dried pasta
sleep with each other nervously in their
boxes.
The ants dig deeper into the woodwork,
their narrow halls echoing
louder and louder.
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