Let us never speak

of the fractured china,
nor of the swans

or the lamb
and the rosemary.

Let us never speak
of Beckett’s grave

or the ruined bicyclist
and the dog in the air,

of the mercury light
and the mosque,

of the skin of your thigh,
of my white shirt.

Everywhere the air
seemed lighter, and you,

I watched you, dancing
in the terrace window

like a girl
in any spring.

–The Agnes Poems


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