An object has no address in the known world, but the speaker recognises the feeling of being similarly unplaced.
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The object has no address. Every road declines its name. I write a letter anyway: Dear thing, I know the feeling. The envelope stays empty. Somewhere, the field receives it without opening anything.
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A field remains open after judgement fails, allowing the speaker to see without forcing a conclusion.
A darkness & chaos poem about address, name, glass, where attention changes the scale of the ordinary.
A surreal speculative poem about a child, erased play, and a bureaucratic world that turns memory, language, and belonging into terms of service.
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