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.