EVERY DAY the edge of memory shifts
and what we wanted to say: the apple
doesn’t know that time recites us. In our hands
a huge lake sweats, and the world
begins again as fine as a whisper
over the garden gate, like a spider’s web
that hangs up a centre in the air, lying in wait
for a connection. We think ourselves in sequences
the table laid, and when silence opens,
in the street love goes to the baker’s
dumb as a deer. A shiver crosses the wallpaper.
What´s difficult now is the blackbird.