I know I have written this before.
Last time it was incomplete
with words that made rows
of towers and buildings,
of flowers and ladies.
This stanza breathes
for words to complete
the transparency.
Take the liberty and enter
a new room without opening
a door, or walking a corridor.
Even the date and time have been effaced;
memory has drained out like ink in my pen.

When I speak of weather I mean share prices,
when I speak of business I mean movies,
when I speak I mean to listen,
when I listen I mean to speak.
The line-break suggests I am in wilderness
or somewhere far away from any information.
Is this a repeated story of my city,
with many destinies and few ways,
or is this about a cardiac arrest of a system
due to arteries blocked with dreams?
The distance between memory
and awareness traces maps:
deserts and oceans, snakes and sharks.