In
those   rooms   we   thought
we   knew  the   way  things
were.                                            An ordered disposition of light through shutters, bright spills on the floor.                                            A painting framed like a question across a wall.                                       You pointed to it, saying “it’s made of cut-up canvas”. Twenty fragments pasted together. Myriad gestures joined.                                            In those rooms we moved slowly, tending plants on the terrace as water fell eight floors.
                                               We cooked on a small stove and gathered conversation.                                           
A  man  shouted  next  door
and    was    silent.   A    cat
explored      our        annex.
Sirens cried.
                                      Books were a jammed crowd of voices. But I read little, surveying the heaving city.                                            It was an improbable raft and, in leaky rooms, we were being carried there.