Audio: Read by the author.

What you did wasn’t so bad.

You stood in a small room, waiting for the sun.

At least you told yourself that.

I know it was small,

but there was something, a kind of pulped lemon,

at the low edge of the sky.

No, you’re right, it was terrible.

Terrible to live without love

in small rooms with vinyl blinds

listening to music secretly,

the secret music of one’s head

which can’t be shared.

A dream is the only way to breathe.

But you must

find a more useful way to live.

I suppose you’re right

this was a failure: to stand there

so still, waiting for—what?

When I think about this life,

the life you led, I think of England,

of secret gardens that never open,

and novels sliding off the bed

at night where the small handkerchief

of darkness settles over

one’s face.