The futon was lefton the drying rail.The sky is gray.Wind is rising.In the empty roomthe window remains closed.
The sound of the clock,a hand holding keys.The smell of rainreaches the entryway.The corner of the futonfaces the sky.
Evening.I arrive home.The futon is gone.Nothing hangs on the rail.Before the doorthere is one paper parcel.
Inside is the futon,still folded.There is no trace of water,only the smell of tatami.The mouth of the parcelis folded four times.
The door on the rightstays closed.Its light stays off.I say nothing,lift the parcel,and place it in the room.
After eveningthe wind has stopped.The drying rail is quiet.The futon remains folded indoors.I open the window a little.