That bin there, under a blue
sky in February, I’m looking
down at it and it is
stuffed to the brim, so that

Absolutely nothing more fits in
and nor can you speak
here of systems that regulate
everything according to plan.

It is just full, and we shouldn’t
talk so much, because
that might mean that the whole
thing is ruined.

I like you, how you
stand in the door, adjusting
your dress and filling
the whole of the doorway, and again it’s the

Sun, that lights this cumbersome
moment with such
abandon, as if somewhere there was still
room for feelings.