I’m wondering about what people mean when they talk about things in themselves. What does that mean? And essences. Are they wrapped up inside things or do they come out and play with everything there is? Do they have to be contained to be definitive?

Does music sink into us, rush out and touch everything else we touch? Are we part of its being, in some way? Or are we just reflecting light? Is loving enough giving back? Or is it the only?

Kay Ryan

Surfaces serve
their own purposes,
strive to remain
constant (all lives
want that). There is
a skin, not just on
peaches but on oceans
(note the telltale
slough of foam on beaches).
Sometimes it’s loose,
as in the case
of cats: you feel how a
second life slides
under it. Sometimes it
fits. Take glass.
Sometimes it outlasts
its underside. Take reefs.
The private lives of surfaces
are innocent, not devious.
Take the one-dimensional
belief of enamel in itself,
the furious autonomy
of luster (crush a pearl—
it’s powder), the whole
curious seamlessness
of how we’re each surrounded
and what it doesn’t teach.