there are rooms in suitcases

Through routine, the fancied placement of objects became fact: this is how it was

arranged,

the pile of books, the cups to go downstairs, the jewellery box in waiting.

maypoles: the dance blurred around them.

The steady pillars around which I wrapped days like ribbons

They were there, steadfast between tangled laughter, cries,

The crescendos of arriving and leaving.

On the bed: the suitcase's black hole.

everything that happened is still happening in there. 

The walls are silent, the bed is stripped of ribbon traces,

there are dust shorelines around suspicions that something was loved there.

The photo frame moved from its place distorts

the room around it,

all along, that was the art.