leaving is rearranging,
the white walls saying firmly, we
do not want you to stay here,
doors impressing upon their meaning,
windows too closed for care.
and i, an idler, that wishes as little
change as possible for a forsaken home
find calamities in emptiness.
all the same, they make noise,
below a storm-cloud, a wave kisses nothing;
the blanket, a lifeless sea.
— A. P.