They breed in darkness, first in guise as outdated gadgets
Then slipping in amongst the stacks of papers,
Every time the gray feeling comes
They are there, rustling and dividing. They crawl out
And become dusty books, the ones I’ve never read;
I can hear them fornicating into ticket stubs, trinkets,
Into letters, postcards, an old forgotten shirt.
Last night they spilled out of your box,
Clamoring to be heard.