There’s a square box in my chest. With Something in it. (Life’s elastic, now I’m sure). Your hands. Their hands. My hands. Love
Flows from the space and it’s blue. I liked to be in all the rooms of my house then. In that box
Only you, me and the box know. It’s a room arranged in a certain way. My Inside steadies with hands and stands on Legs there. Dark tall boxes adorn and I can’t see the shorter ones across. It’s too
Crowded. The room’s too small. (Maybe I Don’t fit there anymore.) But you’re still There. I
Can’t think of you alive anymore when I’m in the closet and the bathroom. You were the taker of the blind white And
my twisted scenes. I’m saving them here in this box, this incongruous part of us in case some day I might find the other
Pieces and make it all fit.
Exhibition 1874 