Now I take my room’s inside out.
I will empty its contents in space.
Room is now a memory’s hollow.
Books are my scattered memory
Their contents spread as hollows,
Like thoughts when I am in sleep
My books are memory’s outside
Spilled in a vast hollow of space.
The room’s hollow lies scattered
Beyond a balcony, beyond night.
My inside is a hollow stretching
Indefinitely outside of my body.