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La Vie Privée
Each day rustles down with the other days,
papers in a yellow folder.
Now and then, someone comes looking
for the note he surely left himself last year.
No one can describe things
like the peculiar relief in the afternoon light
remembered from childhood,
just before one of those brief thunderstorms
shook itself out over the dusty trees.
No one can describe those things well.
Sometimes—less often in winter,
more in the heat of summer nights—
a cry bursts out in the darkness.
We try to guess who screamed.
Enfin, the fat folder, too heavy to carry,
scatters its pages into space, scrubbed
and echoing and without word or thought.
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