Doors make of themselves a torso, a leg catches
into a smile and the entire flat surrenders to tardiness.
The removal guys come from all sides, sticking
their meters even through the cracks in the wall,
their sticky tapes slapping all the way to the street below.
I wait for them to wrap up all the images from the TV,
smells from the restaurants, gestures, the flow of people.
The measurers of happy days and hours of family screaming
penetrate into the plug-holes and pipes. Everything we've
ever hidden behind the wardrobes and beneath the floors
is now openly socializing with these tailed racoons.
Naked-eyed we stand in the centre of all the rooms.
From under the impact of broken shadows
and many teas drunk down to the dregs,
a few crumbs slip away from
our numerous and invisible departures.
Funny: as if the crumbs had put themselves
between all the calls and I am trapped with them in sound space,
and as if the rooms in their merging were to lift me on high
rather than quarter me.