It Is

It’s the things. It’s the things. It’s the things

In their thingness, those bumps in the waves

That aren’t humans, aren’t drifting people

Caught in human cycles of abuse

And forgiveness, love and groupishness,

The long dance of power relations

Through intimacies of families,

Small brutalities of coworkers,

The surging conflicts of nation states.

It’s the things. Not the words, just the things.

In the middle of interacting

With people via language, voices,

Letters, screens, half-folded magazines,

Your head so full with your people things,

Like right now, meeting these human words,

You might glance at a combination

Of mute, lifeless, guiltless artifacts

Or plain gravel and think, It’s the things.