the crying room.

it has been a while since the last time.
the sudden familiarity of...
the world as a blur,
quivering, unsteady,
and plop-

down it drops,
independent of the eye.
it is freed.

where am i?
if by my desk,
perhaps it has fallen
unto a piece of paper,
soaking through
and through...
(was it big, or rather small?)

and if after it dries i go
to touch that spot,
i'll recall what
affair it was that made
the small rain...
how lost,
lonely and hidden.

or, i remember
nothing-
that paper has taken
all there was...
or, was it the bed?