I was returning home
by a road of excavations and gravel piles
And returning with me were
my Little Things:
the pebble with which someone hit me long ago
the drop of blood from my nose
the fruit I stole at night
the forest where
a bird hid from me
(after some forgotten poem)
the sins I committed
defending myself
the angel I forgot
while quarrelling with friends
the life I let slip by
staring at god knows what
and god knows where.

One night
all my Little Things
were at home
only I was not there
I am lost, they say,
I staring at god knows what
and god knows where.