Matchbook.

Windchimes flash through my mind inside

the space where memories once were stored.

Looking for light in the darkness is something like

the sound of rain.  Words touch the page and

prove that I am living.  Yet if I imagine a Reader,

I imagine the Reader must Imagine Me.

Belonging - books on a bookshelf, lamp on

a bedside table.  These may be the letters

                         'N' 

'W'                                           'E'

                         'S'

      bringing news of orientation.

Dust on a desk sounds like shards of broken

glass.

I enter my apartment and wonder what others

would think, if they entered, in my absence.

I wonder

what the inanimate

would say.

Could they imagine me here the way

a reader might imagine a grandmother

at a stove?

Would they know the silence,

or how I sat as still as stone?

Where is the lampost

when a path finds itself

off course?

Who would know a forest

in the middle of a city?

What is the true meaning of

-deserted-?

And what do we cling to

when we're not quite sure

which way is up?

The sea rushes in and floods my thoughts.

Salt is dripping slowly down my cheeks,

and I can taste the flavor of my

sight.

A smile is like a sun that rises

from the night.

In the mean time,

I watch the shadows swish accross the empty page.