Hotel Letters

Stacks of texts on the black-and-white
photographs of Miklos Erdely and his
short films and happenings.
And Polaroids of moments
caught by camera. Photographed,
then fixed to the walls with glue and blue
packing tape. By capturing each moment
and each object carrying each moment
I thought I might finally unpack
the blacked-out memory.
Preverbal, visceral, fixed
inside a music I can hear only
inside my own body.
When I was fifteen I caught the bus
into the city every week for singing
lessons. But when I stood before
the teacher’s mirrors, I’d lose
the words, and then the music.
I don’t know how to unpack it,
or how to place the objects
back into their gold light.
Where is the essence from which
music and desire originate.
And how do I return to that.