when I come back home with my sullied suitcase
what shall I do?
I sat long and wonder at the sill
why all roads lead not to Rome or Moscow
but just this room

to this dry paternal cube
to the hard box of constant dimensions
ridiculously distorted in its standing
like an exercise bike

I, large and golden
with fluid passports in my hair
a student girl of world aerodromes
always bound again
with the four safety belts
of its empty walls

once again after the seaside
to sit with a torn ticket in this room
is about like
hanging upside down
pendant from a thin hook in the wall,
from force of circumstances
from accident
the flutter of butterfly wings in Peking
pendant on someone's wish
here to wait for the big days
of christening, wedding and graduation
like the family
ham on the bone