The thing that makes you follow the baseboards across the room

is not the thing that will bring you back.

Six, evening, and it is Sunday.

The music to you is light and unfamiliar

you say.

I know it well.

We speak of something yellow

and bright—how we saw it.

It means nothing.

You kiss me.

The chair, the tree, the table leg.

The soap has fallen from its dish.