I will meet you in the rain, at midnight,

at the museum of lost things.

We are curators, cataloguing abandoned shoes,

discarded in wild joy or endless despair.

Nothing here comes in pairs.

I'll meet you in silence or a cacophony, the

gallery of tears and cries can never

be opened to the public.

The gates are made of keys and teeth, I'll

meet you just inside where the room of breath sighs.

So much is waiting to be sorted.

We should not even mention love.

When you find my childhood

please alert me. I will always do the same.

I'll meet you in the room of names.

I'll meet you in the dark, in secret, and

ask about the thought of blame.

In the museum of lost things

words maintain their own gallery,

bandied about, floating, snapped,

lobbed gently or just said.

I can ask you to describe the significance

or feel the silence as a separate host.

My work is never done.

I look for signs in all that has been discarded,

the entire detritus of this humanity,

and I keep on finding what still exists,

the gift of sorting, the curation of friendship,

the bottom of the barrel, the wonder of the end.

If love was the question we would be elsewhere and asking.

I will meet you in the pouring rain,

at midnight, at the museum of lost things.

The gates are made of teeth and keys.

There is a room for breath and hope and joy.

I will be there, as if it is the only thing to do.

Because it is the only thing to do.