You said: In an empty room the mind may wander.
I said: But my legs are tired.

When you left nothing changed, but the junk mail piled up on my doorstep—first two pieces, then three, then whole bundles still warm, then cartons then truckloads—hundreds of skinny women in sweaters, in smiles, asking, begging, won’t I won’t I just come out to the balcony come down to the street come in and purchase, purchase what only I was missing?

            Objects forgotten like sound fading.  Objects discovered like echoes.   
            Listen to this box of clothes and hear your restless bedmate.  Hear this 
            gibberish, this mumble, this foreign language of what once was.          

            Please hide me from the plastic comfort of things. 

            And from stagnation: time absorbed by furniture.

Before we met I had no idea where I was. Now my head is full of timetables and maps and pictures and plans, and I don’t know where to be, don’t know where you are.

            Though somewhere a banana flower opens to the light; somewhere orchids     
            fall from the canopy like discarded smiles; somewhere a million insects 
            walk the surface of the pond.

ABRAHAM BURICKSON