Here, the days melt into one another. My mind a sieve
too coarse to retain the fine grains of purpose,
I wander through rooms drawn by random things—
a pen without a cap, an envelope unopened, cobwebs, a mask.

Too coarse to retain the fine grains of purpose
I am a filter for the residue of aimlessness and loss— 
a pen without a cap, an envelope unopened, cobwebs, a mask. 
Last night, we joked about our rooms of forgetting and how

I am a filter for the residue of aimlessness and loss 
filled with blank pages, unspoken words, an empty glass.
Last night we joked about our rooms of forgetting and how
today my apartment is a museum of forgetfulness

filled with blank pages, unspoken words, an empty glass. 
I push off from my desk and drift down a long hallway, I . . . 
Today my apartment is a museum of forgetfulness— 
a repository for objects touched by the gentle patina of indifference . . .

I push off from my desk and drift down a long hallway, I
open a cupboard, rinse out a teacup, survey the dining table—
a repository for objects touched by the gentle patina of indifference. 
I finger a ring of keys and wonder what doors they might unlock,

open a cupboard, rinse out a teacup, survey the dining table.
Here I scan the shelves, shuffle papers, reach into an empty pocket. 
I finger a ring of keys and wonder what doors they might unlock.
Back at my desk I search for a clue to tell me why I am 

here. I scan the shelves, shuffle papers, reach into an empty pocket.
I wander through rooms drawn by random things.
Back at my desk I search for a clue to tell me why I am 
here. The days melt into one another. My mind, a sieve.