Sport 40: 2012
there’s a coming and going in the house next door,
but the spindle tree keeps me out of sight.
only paths for cats, toads and snails
lead through the overgrown garden.
with a roar the sea throws off
its stink cloak.
on my desk imagined people
practise the missing dialogue.
i sit there as if at the bottom of an old disturbance.
i force air into my memory cells
to keep them alive, in the evening walk
over piazza tartini and come
in the morning with fresh melons from the market.
twice a week frida comes by.
why don’t you get married, she calls from the bushes,
it’s not much, but better than being lonely.
today a toad will lose its warts,
because i’m going to kiss it, i say.
i’d like to be the bridesmaid, dear poet.
another door swings shut.