The boxes sat in the hall staring at ee cummings’ locked door,
waiting for her, for a moment that they could be freed from their
charges, their silent passengers; parts of her in pieces of paper
bags of socks, books about things she’s already read, clothes
memories and the other parts that she is when she isn’t in
her own mind

ee cummings lived behind that door—once—when he owned
the lock that divided it from everything else, when his breath
added molecules of perspiration, carbon dioxide and errant
specks of DNA to the great empty atmosphere blanketing the
place we call home earth dirt trees and people knowing and
not knowing us

She unlocks the door and helps the boxes across the threshold
kindly agreeing with herself that she should be unfurled removed
repackaged into the apartment once lived in by ee Cummings
she wonders—looking at the insignificance of shadows—is there
leftover bits and pieces of his psyche staining the small corners
the intransient nature of life

The wallpaper in the one room, the one to the left, imagined as a
thin walled box wrapped by plaster and lathing, a building built
around it, a door cut in a wall…two windows to the street…all but
performed a ritual acceptance; sadly content to have new
perspiration, carbon dioxide and errant DNA of someone not
ee cummings

The boxes collapsed and two dimensional, the wallpaper satisfied;
she unfolded bit by little bit into the space once owned by
ee cummings