His usual self but you wouldn’t sell a gift,
Circle up a ring, mocking jay memories
– told so – on a faulty phone.
His usual self and time in the pocket,
Colonizing space with paper photographs.
Gift corridors and gift windows,
A full house, an empty field and a moon.
Room for a gift and gift doors,
It’s for you, miss, it is from the rest.
The pursuit of happiness lead to a thicket,
She was scratched by thorns on which she left
A skein and a sign. Don’t you know
That the story is true only up to a point
And false past that. And yet we give.
Image credit : Vilhelm Hammershøi, « Figures by the Window », c.1895, Oil on canvas, 55 x 46 cm