I like being in your apartment, and not disturbing anything.
As in the woods I wouldn't want to move a tree,or change the play of sun and shadow on the ground.
The yellow kitchen stool belongs right thereagainst white plaster.
I haven't used your purple towelbecause I like the accidental cleft of shade you left in it.
At your small six-sided table, covered with mysteriousdents in the wood like a dartboard,
I drink my coffeefrom your brown mug.
I look into the clearingof your high front room, where sunlight slopes through barewindow squares.
Your Afghanistan hammock, a man-sized cocoonslung from wall to wall, your narrow desk and typewriterare the only furniture.
Each morning your light from the eastdouses me where, with folded legs,
I sit in your meadow,a casual spread of brilliant carpets.
Like a cat or dogI take a roll, then, stretched out flatin the center of color and pattern,
I listento the remote growl of trucks over cobbles on Bethune Street below.
When I open my eyes I discover the peaceful blankof the ceiling.
Its old paint-layered surface is moonwhiteand trackless, like the Sea—of Tranquillity.
