Choose a quiet br place, a ruins, a house no more br a house, br under whose stone archway I stood br one day to duck the rain. br br The roofless floor, vertical br studs, eight wood columns br supporting nothing, br two staircases careening to nowhere, all br make it seem br br a sketch, notes to a house, a three- br dimensional grid negotiating br absences, br an idea br receding into indefinite rain, br br or else that idea br emerging, skeletal br against the hammered sky, a br human thing, scoured seen clean br through from here to an iron heaven. br br A place where things br were said and done, br there you can remember br what you need to br remember. Melancholy is useful. Bring yours. br br There are no neighbors to wonder br who you are, br what you might me doing br walking there, br stopping now and then br br to touch a crumbling brick br or stand in a doorway br framed by the day. br No one has to know you br thing of another doorway br br that framed the rain or news of war br depending on which way you faced. br You think of sea-roads and earth-roads br you traveled once, and always br in the same direction: away. br br You think br of a woman, a favorite br dress, your old father's breasts br the last time you saw him, his breath, br brief, the leaf br br you've torn from a vine and which you hold now br to your cheek like a train ticket br or a piece of cloth, a little hand or a blade - br it all depends br on the course of your memory. br br It's a place br for those who own no place br to correspond to ruins in the soul. br It's mine. br It's all yours.