All you colored shirts hang just as you had left

And you office door’s closed, just as you had said

All your Dylan tapes stay unplayed and go untouched

And your poetry books are closed and collecting dust

“Throw it away”, so they tell me, “to help with the hurt”

Not for my world

Their grass dries, and moons rise, and clocks tick, and sun’s lit

On this earth, not my world