What was the house behind the gates?
How did it's life begin and end?
Where are the hands that wrote its histories?
Will I return to it?

It was the bed in which you slept your crimes away.
Its life is not a thing begun nor ended.
Those hands move deftly still.
You will return.

What was my summer ritual?
Who built those cafe tables?
How many cigarettes, how much coffee spent with him?
Did I move so far away to kill such things forever?

It was the only way you knew to say goodbye.
Chinese workers built those tables, and sewed your clothing, too.
It doesn't matter.
No.

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