At times, when there is nothing in me,
It happens to me: from the crowd
Along the street a long-lapsed voice
Sounds out again and watches me.
Then it's as if I've lost my way
And must head back to the old house
In its original full state
Before my hands had hollowed it out.
Amid the kept accounts and garbage cans,
There's one more thing to be retrieved,
A thing undone, a thing unplanned,
A thing I left behind so I could leave.
At times, when there is nothing in me,
It lightly brushes by my ear,
And fills my eyes and fills my voice like ink;
So incomplete. But going back
Just isn't me.