One event stands out from childhood:
the day someone left.
The house was not empty,
but it would happen again
and again. This affected my sight:
fragments filled the air
with everything—a man
standing by the door, a cinder
in the air, evenings by myself.
Certain contradictions recurred:
a streetlamp glowing at sunrise
the moon rising in the afternoon.
Now a white sheet covers everything,
a network of cloth, a web on the door.
Perhaps this explains nothing
but a restlessness to leave the world,
the desire to sleep on the floor
of one’s past, beyond the rise of memory.
Once, someone left. The world was not changed
as I was, but the house I lived in
was left by itself, a thin frame standing
against the past and parting of events.
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