This room should be called “enough”
with its sound of arrival, its fixed white sheets
like a new beginning. I have left
my shoes at the door with their dust
of other things and places, I have hung
the drooping shoulders of my coat. I have paid
my dues in the underworld to the man singing
love’s desperate songs, and the different languages
you hear in this city, sounding all like explanations
for leaving where they came from. I will have
to stare certain years in the face, Love, return
to places ravished of presences, so for now,
let us lie down on your immaculate bed,
let us breathe deeply, and let us call this room
“Enough”.