In the soft patch of velcro
on the blue curtain--
a lightning bolt of thread,
one thousand spindles
of what were words once
but no longer.
The newspaper folded neatly on an empty seat reads
PABLO NERUDA TO BE EXHUMED.
The poet comes out of the earth.
In the train toilet, someone has left
a crumpled rose of notepaper behind the tap.
Unfolding it reveals pencil markings.
Someone began a letter:
"Forgive me. I don't know your weaknesses,
and don't know what to avoid when writing to you."
They had then given up.
It's raining against my window.
I take a couple pills meant for pain.
I chew them right before I swallow
so the dry bitterness shoots over my tongue.
Sometimes relief doesn't come fast enough.
Sometimes you don't want it to.
"i wish i were an empty page
in a soft, yellow book.
it would be easy to mistake myself
for a few clouds implying mountains,
or the sound of an animal cooing at the edge
of a city.
i would pass for an absent object
that could only hav