I dislike the word chair just before dawn
When I have to hit upon it when the wind
Outside the window falls on nearby trees
In a rhythm of rain, expected in daybreak.
As a false positive I have to like the chair.
Its contours are deeply etched in my mind
As if they were from my very ancient man.
Here I am talking about the chair as object
While sitting in it as subject doing poems.
The chair suddenly ceases to be the object,
An object poem in my subjective thought.
It becomes me in its pearl-white plasticity
Not deigning to melt into my light letters
Of poems materializing from air as objects.
My words turn objects, ahead of the chair.
They are now object poems like the chair.
