Friday evening, on the sofa, with the tea going cold: six lines and a small star,
and a delete button under my thumb for about a minute and a half.

I did not press it. An hour later I came back and did not press it then either.

That line is not a target now and it is not a photograph now.
It is somebody's handwriting from a June I remember badly.
I am going to leave it exactly where it is
until some evening when I open that note for a shopping list
and come out again without having read it.

The Book of the Phoenix — Wall 61:9