The things he left behind

There are things I left behind, after packing up my stuff in my room, in Princeton, in Little Hall, in America, they were all over the place, in no logical order

They include one Bible given to me by Craig Schindewolf,

One book “Searching for the invisible God” , a gift from Elliot Leung,
Oh dang

The things he left behind,
Not like the things she carried, a song of word, to which Jenny Schölick created a dance
A woman dressed as a madam, complete with gloves, and a hat, carried in her purse,
With her arms, obtuse angled, curved above, her, as if shielding and a decisive stare on her face, she is a woman decided,

The things I left behind, though,
Were books, donated to the bookdrive
And some Bulgarian classic novels,
Bau Ganiuo I Yan bibian, I left them to lie there, on the floor,
And the talasimia,

So this is what it means to travel light, to leave it behind,
The yoga mats,
The two bags I had,

And all of my writings, all of my informal, prose and poetry,
All recycled,

Even you, the journal I wrote in at Etanga
I left you too,
All those notes
Gone
But no
I found it in my drawer
Le Voilà, I exclaimed!



But I left behind my Lewis Center for the Arts shirt,
That I wore in Etanga,

So that my art continues without it
Independent of it,

This is what it is to surrender the material
The tangible

And ask Matthew what to do,
And be told that my wealth is not in things on this earth,
And I found peace



With me I took,
Still a desire to dance
And the doing of dance
And the dearth of resources,

I took my questioning about how I can help
And the tear between art and the ‘ology’, namely the epidemiology,

Also I took the truth,
Of me
And a virus, though luckily,
Not H1N1.