Here was the result of that disorder
in which a turn of a step
trips into an element
of the past, grey and heavy,
that dawned with feet
of steel, voluminous decrepit facts
and a nose for finding
unprompted hysteria.
“One’s head isn’t for storing
books,” said the unknown
student among those that circled.
Taking no account of the story,
the student fetched up the handkerchief
from the tiled floor
in the residence’s patio.
The pocket is for keeping
impressions. Hands
fruitlessly stroke the fabric
patterned with irises.
Son of the great
skirtless nature.