A dog pants

in the noonday heat;

under her gaze

ants are tracing

invisible pathways.


I would throw Rilke’s

bowl of roses

out the window

and let the room become

as cold as ice.


The Nametaking River

took his name away.

Now he forgets himself

and the shallow waters

are full of sunken logs.


Coat hangers migrate

from wardrobe to wardrobe.

Always the same pigeon

ruffling its feathers

on the window ledge.


Over the years

our lives touched

like two drifting boats.

Now for you there is just

the infinite sea.


On my bedside table:

a snuffed candle, a bath plug,

a rusted bread knife—

objects to keep the angels away

so I can get a good night’s sleep.


An old mirror rests

on the ocean floor.

Small red fish

filled with delight

see themselves as flames.