If Baroque were more than a manner
of music, it would be this last
afternoon.
Sun, disciplined by hours, moves
slowly
across the floor. The shadows of
pears
in the basket compose a pattern
described only once. If you spoke
now,
it would be a kind of violence
troubling
the skin of the moment. We have
stepped
out of the past and the future waits
without us. Outside, the wind
ruffles grass,
invisibly bending each blade. A
single piano note
repeated without variation floats
across
the lawn. Naked, we are suddenly
strange,
in time again, you are already
moving away
from me. Yesterday, we walked
saying the names of streets and
trees,
bringing them forever into us.
Later,
you came behind me in the doorway,
slid
your arms around my waist. I wanted
to ask
if you had said everything, but only
said your name. Tomorrow,
it will all be different. Already,
I see you in a hotel room, curtain
half-drawn. You will sit in profile
unfolding the news of another
country.
The same sky will go on reinventing
itself. I will put on the clothes
laid out the night before
while the morning stains with
traffic.
I will slice grapefruit
and wonder if distance
will give us back to ourselves.
Nincsenek megjegyzések:
Megjegyzés küldése