In a multi-part poem Dan Chiasson calls “Swifts,” the objects and entities who speak to us (a fist, a needle’s eye, a sound at 2 a.m.) have uncanny self-knowledge. Here is “Tree.”
All day I waited to be blown;
then someone cut me down.
I have, instead of thoughts,
uses; uses instead of feelings.
One day I’ll feel the wind again.
A moment later I’ll be gone.