“Everything is filled with you,
and everything is filled with me:
the towns are full,
just as the cemeteries are full
of you, all the houses
are full of me, all the bodies.
I wander down streets losing
things I gather up again:
parts of my life
that have turned up from far away.
I wing myself toward agony,
I see myself dragging
through a doorway,
through creation’s latent depths.
Everything is filled with me:
with something yours and memory
lost, yet found
again, at some other time.
A time left behind
decidedly black,
indelibly red,
golden on your body.
Pierced by your hair,
everything is filled with you,
with something I haven’t found,
but look for among your bones.
”
