I Move

I move the boxes to make for fewer boxes, fewer

places. I move them always down, boxes

within boxes, searching

for the ultimate simplification,

all the way down to now-

what I can carry in the back of a small truck

in which I also sleep, empty. It is past midnight,

it is raining, I pull off the road to sleep.

I have no more boxes than I can sleep with-

it is that simple. Each time

there were eight boxes left, three

would need explaining.

I leave behind whatever

needs explaining, I simplify. That is what I do,

the one box before steam rises from the empty street

& blows away. The one box it would seem is now

this: I'm sitting in the cab of my truck, an organizer

in my lap, one box

too many: nine plastic drawers, three up & three

across, paperclips, rubber bands, fuses, a set

of small screwdrivers, unused parts of cameras,

meters. I've had it for eight years,

thru one simplification after another, no use

for it yet, not even a clip. I cannot sleep

with it in my lap-this rage

not for order, for organizing.

I must give up organizing.

I will put it on a list.

Meanwhile, in the rain,

Iam waiting

to sleep under a tin roof again.

I try to sleep again. | fall

into a deep sleep, I keep falling

into one emptiness after another,

there is no disorder,

I fall into death.

When I wake I move

& then I move

again-