A shirt flies up, folds itself Into a box. What is this? An interruption. I try on a skirt And it cinches. I am slendered With the compliment. Khaki Pants and pants and pants and A wrinked shirt fly behind the couch. The cardboard becomes Oklahoma, and She leaves six days later to reclaim A tornado born in 1962. What the carpet? What the music >From her corner of the room? What the quiet and the quiet? What our separate heat, mine Of Philadelphia, hers of summer In a place that warm all year? I horror at the shelf. It bites Back with dust and the grit Of a place we didn't clean even In September. The ceiling curdles, The walls part and the boxes Loaf-and-fish themselves. I live with a gape-maw? An mute window? Twice a door?
Accourding to Mytili Jagannathan: Date: Thu, 20 May 1999 14:43:23 -0400 (EDT) From: email@example.com (Mytili Jagannathan) Hi hubverse--I loved reading Hannah's poems for her departing roommate--particularly the double-play on "condensing" as dewing and collapsing, the surprise of trying to imagine a surface "licked with sugar" and also the collapsing of time--the "yesterday lover" and the "tomorrow car" against the oddly stretching, emptying present. Hannah, what a vivid and wonderful sendoff gift! --Mytili