from Letter in April: VII

with our money

clutched

in our hands,

buying bread

and scattering breadcrumbs

for the bluish

doves.

Paying

to see

the fire eater,

the cigarette swallower

and the dead vagabond

who breathes.

Greeting

the palm tree

that sighs

at night.

Saying a few words

to the staring

stone figure

above the gate.

Laughing

and rushing

in

as if chased.

In the cool kitchen

we prepare

and arrange our food.

We make it as elegant

as we can.

Bouquet on the table

and all.

And we speak

in our own

clear

language.

Who knows

if things don’t

know in themselves

that we’re called

something else.