the thing itself
virginia woolf looked at the thing itself
but i look through it, round it, beneath it, behind it
instead of straight at it
is it because i've been told not to judge a book by its cover that i
open it up and look inside, close it and look around?
you say "look at the snow" and i see
fairy dust falling against a brown-black sky
i see a white blanket and picture
the things that sleep underneath
the blades of grass flattened by the weight
and the crocuses that will soon
push through and continue the cycle
i try to look at the thing itself
but i see what it touches and what it doesn't
what it changes and what will stay the same
