Taking Trips Inside a Room

A song walking in
Between my finger tips
Flew to his hair

I asked him
– Did you hear that?

He said – no, it was
Just your hand
Of ink marks
And dry mountain rocks

But then he
Sent a letter of
Striped pieces of heat
Walked over by
A confident spider
When the night spread
Inside the neighbour’s mouth

The letter wrapped up
In winter fog
Climbed the roof
Crawled on the floor
And reached my waist