These are the objects light has groomed

a rain that wipes its fingerprints from the windowpane,
a tree that twists from earth to sky, unable to decide,
a plate of peaches freighted with the taste that never leaves
his mouth. Like other Czechs before him, he has confessed
to loving the secret life of objects.
Prague is full of them.
That’s why the streets are bent and small,
their ascent so steep. . .

--Marcela Sulak