The mirror I left on the floor filled with apricots
was careless. But careless is something I’ve been
recently. I didn’t
want to open the book
the author had signed, crossed out his name
and signed again like a bitten into peach.
Now say something philosophical.
And when we threw him out he clanged
like an old chandelier.
A great smoker
reduced to ashes.
Outside two swans
clear their long throats.
It is remarkably
short and over like the first time making love.
Now I m writing this letter from a field of aster
And the stems are understandably long.
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