The neighbours’ children have left
the doors wide open again.
I leave Jana at the house
by the slanting apricot tree.
This time, the engine will die on the street
on the balconies people come and go
someone’s watering flowers –
for hours we will watch the ornaments
inside the glass case, a teacup, a dolphin, an angel
there is always something missing –
a worn wreath a worn floor a worn eye.
With a small and a large spoon
we swallow stars from the soup.
Once in a while we look at each other
with the muteness of museums
and the glass reflects our faces
like two moons floating in water.
I knew something was wrong
with the porcelain canoes –
the way the girl waits for them to return.
They pulled the silence
the old carried to bed.
I remember it, here in the bedroom
three small women were carefully mending the cloth
around them something seamless was stretching as whiteness.