To the Reader: If You Asked Me

　　 by Chase Twichell

　　 I want you with me， and yet you are the end

　　 of my privacy. Do you see how these rooms

　　 have become public？ How we glance to see if--

　　 who？ Who did you imagine？

　　 Surely we're not here alone， you and I.

　　 I've been wandering

　　 where the cold tracks of language

　　 collapse into cinders， unburnable trash.

　　 Beyond that， all I can see is the remote cold

　　 of meteors before their avalanches of farewell.

　　 If you asked me what words

　　 a voice like this one says in parting，

　　 I'd say， I'm sweeping an empty factory

　　 toward which I feel neither hostility nor nostalgia.

　　 I'm just a broom， sweeping.

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