A story is a room, with windows that let the outside in, with
corners in which to hide, with a place for the past, even for
seven variations of the present — time splitting into rainbow
hues, each coloured arch bending towards a different end.
But love cannot fit in a room the way it can in a poem. A
poem is a shining eye. A small object. A distant star. A cup
of tea. A raindrop sliding off a leaf. A single drumbeat.
Everything I have to say is held in its tiny fist. There is no
breadth, no depth, no curve to tell you why or when. No
space for reasons, for questions. I see your room, rich with
pronouns trimmed in brocade and velour. I know that kind
of love that has Persian carpets and antique lamps from the
souk. I bring only a blue marble. A swatch of sky. My poem is
a little box of wood. How many are already lost in your room?