I just don't know what to do with myself

on the occasions I can locate it.

Oh, it's circled on maps but when I stop to ask

then dust has covered the traces.

In these living rooms and in limbo,

on all fours and on tiptoe I chase it.

Of course I've read the self-help literature,

Bergson et al and etcetera;

the brain is but a pilferer

and in theory all can be heard and seen,

what is now and what has been

and the world is on my fingerprints.

Still my garbage overflows the bins

and I am blown by violins

to search myself to smithereens

down half remembered alleyways;

the detritus of all the days

has settled on your counterpane.

We fumble locks and zips and lips

too intimately intricate,

we hesitate to laugh and listen

to blueness drenched in our percussion.

Let's steal a ball with a private insciption

and dare anyone to pursue.

Then at daybreak when dust has gathered

and the large birds hover and squawk

I'll shrink smaller than invisible

and beg you to turn on the dark.