The lift comes up to your floor and there is nobody in it, and you look again and it's empty. And as the door opens to you on the eighth floor you realise that it is a box, on a rope, sliding up and down in a hole. A very deep hole. Suddenly you realise it is a box. An empty box. And the moment grips you for a moment. You turn your back on the door for a moment and that moment lasts as you walk eight flights and at the bottom you discard it. No. Just a passing thought. Nothing permanent. Eight flights and it's gone. So where has it got you now?
Messages came that were written in your eyes. It was so nice to see you both again. Back from Portugal with barely a smile line grown older. Even the coffee was the same as ever. And stopped in your sea view villa where the waves could lap against the shore. The sun blows a golden time now near the gas ring. This English sun has no counterpart except the one you have left. Four firm wheels carry you through its light. If there is wind there is wind. It blows from the sea to the sand. In between the sand grains. It whistles before the gas ring boils the kettle. Sunlight laps against windscreens and is gone. Once long ago this was the time. This was the space. I feel still the warmth that stirred then. That flowed into the folds. The feeling that remains. Parts of it flow around. The van has four wheels and is incorporated into this space.