I want you with me， and yet you are the end

    of my privacy. Do you see how these rooms

    have become public？ How we glance to see if——

    who？ Who did you imagine？

    Surely we're not here alone， you and I.

    I've been wandering

    where the cold tracks of language

    collapse¹ into cinders²， unburnable trash.

    Beyond that， all I can see is the remote cold

    of meteors before their avalanches³ of farewell.

    If you asked me what words

    a voice like this one says in parting，

    I'd say， I'm sweeping⁴ an empty factory

    toward which I feel neither hostility⁵ nor nostalgia⁶.

    I'm just a broom， sweeping.