You have a room
a room of memory,?
where you sit and wait?
for life to happen to you.?
You own that world
to maintain the momentary
order of things. You let?
your head wander?
in all directions while secretly?
guarding the place?
where you have buried?
your life's desires. Somehow,?
in the most disorderly moments?
of life, you seek a happening
in your life through memory.?
In the brief instant of life,?
you look in the mirror—
you feel trapped inside your body,?
in the mirror, in life,?
and in all the other things?
that remotely gaze?
at your reflection. You realize?
that the world is such a small place?
for you—small for your desires,?
small for your grief. In the night's
quietest hour, when you see?
life through the gauze of memory,?
the world vanishes from sight.?
All you can see is?
your solitary self, pulled together?
by needles of memory,?
weaving life and grief.