or grimy corridors. A noise of trains
we'll never catch. And yet we run. It seems
the floors are slippery. Outside it rains.
That's why the streets are wet A local bus
splashes as it goes past. We hurt our knee
jumping aboard. The sign confuses us
and we can't read in dreams. Annoyingly
We left our bags behind. One sandal too.
We know that these events are memories
Shattered, glued randomly and out of true.
And that's how love is. We can never please
Her, since She's made of fragments that we chase
relentless, damp, and cannot read Her face.