In the early evening, a now, as man is bending
over his writing table.
Slowly he lifts his head; a woman appears, carrying roses.
Her face floats to the surface of the mirror, marked with the green spokes of rose stems.
It is a form of suffering: then always the transparent page raised to the window until its veins emerge as words finally filled with ink.
And I am meant to understand what binds them together or to the gray house held firmly in place by dusk because I must enter their lives: it is spring, the pear tree filming with weak, white blossoms.

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