Proof of the past:
    In November, you were born. Nothing here but stark cold,
   until your warmth. Your presence extolled.
        The mirrors remember your vestige. This is the silence
       that extracts itself then exacts itself in this frame. Sometimes letters

accumulate but remain unfinished. In November, it is all clear.
     I have no use for sordid entrails.

      It is the stone’s duty to be evidence
of situation. Its flight, the sum of all its lost parts,
    say when you speculate over the escritoire over an unfinished meal,

burn altogether and turn to scrap everything even the soft presses on the creaking
  metal of the chair where we almost made love but didn’t because it is a surprise
   that in rawness we are ripe more than ever, making our

     life total, if not equal to an immense fault. You are sometimes

the cold metal chair I conjure.   Sometimes just bleakness.   This uniformity

    seeks riddance.

   Proof of the past as surety to claim:
       In November, this year, they have changed the roads. Detours constructed
to arrive at a certain destination. Faces blur past the old university.
Trees    are  effigies.      Leaves wriggle like   the  curtains of  room  201,  2nd floor,

      I do not know what specimen I have in my hands. Bare in lack of worship.
  Grandeur      is  here
         when   seasons   are predictable.    This is the home and that is where you are that translates
      it     so. A wanted want – a dispossession.

Proof of the future:
                        You know nothing about this place.