Poem

 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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