The desk at which I read and write is simple,
just a low table, 8 or 9 inches off the floor.
On it, are a few favorite books:
Richard Wright’s “Haiku”, Lu Chi's "Wen Fu" and “The Poems of T’ao Ch’ien”
at the moment, also coffee, pen and notebook
and a clipping in a teacup for company.
I sit before my desk on a cushion on the floor
and thinking of nothing special, I realize
how easily it can all be taken apart:
the books can be repatriated to the shelf
the teacup clipping to a sunlit sill, even
the table neatly folded into the closet.
How easily death breaks down the things we build.