In a colossal space called imagination
a shirt of memory hangs on my shoulders.
I can go to everywhere I’ve been.
Outside the houses are gone,
the streets replaced.
The people, oh the warm people,
where have they grown cold?
What inhabits their bodies now?
Reality is a deep space.
It has no rules except the heart,
a colloquy of what consumes me
day and night,
outside I am lost.
My hands confined to letters,
where I could drown among gravestones
and longing.
But it is enough to know they are
where I can be,
where I can find them.
The touch and kisses I put on paper,
and a poem I might find
placed on my desk,
from somewhere,
someone,
who loves me still.