This must be where the important things go -
       notes from the job you hate and back issues of The Economist,
next to the photograph you keep of
              the man whose name you don’t remember but
              you let him tie you up and fuck you anyway.

I can’t seem to find the letters I wrote you,
       the ones you said were here
                            when I asked.

Perhaps I didn’t look hard enough on this
              shelf of important stuff -
       those ringbinders and those back issues,
       the unwritten in diaries and notebooks undating the day we met,
       the crumpled café and bar receipts and
       the empty spaces between them, shelving priceless
                     important dust.

14th December, 2004