Another country's dampness tumbles to the floor;
towels in a heap; fleece holds the scent of you.
A kind of violence removing
fresh-crumpled museum passes, sea glass,
the stone saved from the road where the wood pigeon startled.
(Still pokes its head now and then from under my socks.)
A shame to store it undefined with other bags;
after it crossed the border, witnessed so much buzz.
I will keep it unzipped, ravenous for another;
your original score pocketed in the top.
tk/January 2015
Back to normal in R.A.D.'s black and white world...
