Picture of Little Letters

I think I like this room. The curtains and the furniture aren’t the same Of course, but the light comes in the window as it used to Late in the morning, after the others had gone to work. You can even shave in it. On the dresser with the mirror Are a couple of the pictures we took one afternoon Last May, walking down the alley in the late sunlight. I remember now how we held hands for fifteen minutes Afterwards. The words meander through the mirror But I don’t want them now, I don’t want these abbreviations. What I want in poetry is a kind of abstract photography Of the nerves, but what I like in photography Is the poetry of literal pictures of the neighborhood. The late afternoon sunlight is slanting through the window Again, sketching the room in vague gestures of discontent That roll off the mind, and then only seem to disappear. What am I going to do now? And how am I going to sleep tonight? A peculiar name flickers in the mirror, and then disappears.