Here
are orange benches
and the memory of our conversation
that hangs, trembling,
like lights in the water:
I see the lighted windows,
like small sails
they glide in the night air.
A reflection in a window
is like the sound of voices
drifting
from the upstairs rooms,
beautiful, but interrupted,
like the unusual music in the night
when a car passes,
(it disturbs for a moment the low leaves)
or a poem written in a slanted hand
how we long to interpret its difficulties!
(You sent me once a poem, folded
and folded.)