名人诗歌|To the Reader: If You Asked Me

I want you with me， and yet you are the end

of my privacy. Do you see how these rooms

have become public？ How we glance to see if

who？ Who did you imagine？

Surely we're not here alone， you and I.

I've been wandering

where the cold tracks of language

collapse^{1 into cinders2， unburnable trash.}

Beyond that， all I can see is the remote cold

of meteors before their avalanches^{3 of farewell.}

If you asked me what words

a voice like this one says in parting，

I'd say， I'm sweeping^{4 an empty factory}

toward which I feel neither hostility^{5 nor nostalgia6.}

I'm just a broom， sweeping.