the perils of puttering

I get sucked into the minute details of the contents of every box. I cannot pass by a notebook without going through every page. Truly, much of it is awful.

But still, I offer you a poem, unearthed in a notebook that might be from 1992 or 1993:

would you?
will i?
may i?
yes.
what?
where?
that.
there.
yes.
love-
 you.

yes.