I’m writing poems to the echoes. Life was here, but caught the eight-fifteen somewhere. Sat in the day coach listening to the same sound that opened the petals of a country. Only sadness remains, guest unwilling to go home, full of anecdotes about. And in the rooms I remember, words are arranged like furniture. Easy chair for contemplation, coffee table a wake-me-up call. I’m writing lyrics for the shadows so they can sing. A choir standing on the rift between imagination and the dishes.