I turn into a bag.
An old rag
takes me out at dawn.
We drag ourselves, hunched over.

Here it is, it says, the blue tie,
a man climbed it while it was around his neck.
Now up there it sobs
because it doesn't know how to come down.

But I say nothing, what can a bag say?

Here it is, it says, the coat.
Its name is Ahab, its rags are our rags.
It’s looking for the tailor who made it.
It wants to tear away all its black threads.

But I say nothing, what can a bag say?

Here it is, it says, a pair of boots,
while they were sinking, while they were going under
they saw their life in a flash,
wherever we go, they will cling to us.

But I say nothing, what can a
bag stuffed with tow up to its neck say?

from Hotel insonnia (Adelphi, 2002)