If our hands join together
our skin switches on like a light
upon suburban rooftops.
Beneath the objects resides a secret heart.
On the surface of the faces
On the face of mothers their children.
In the eyes of memory
passers-by without destination.
Every object has a word
just around the corner.
The words all join together in an unusual garden.
There were flowers for everyone.
Black flowers that no one remembers.
White sheets concealing our dreams.