the fact that in the beginning
there’s only a smell of wood fire
time when time doesn’t yet exist
the spring sun licks your face
like a puppy
we exchange glances
that have unwittingly seen
what they’ve seen
brought to the surface
we stare goggle-eyed
the deep sea fish
I want to comfort you but your tears
tickle my cheek
old age falls on our heads
like snow that doesn’t thaw
in spring
when you recall the summers
when parents used to take you
to the suburban lake
you remember the sight
of old women on the beach
standing by a plaid blanket
in two-piece beach suits
a burdock leaf on the head
as large as a frog’s eyes
dark sunglasses with green
plastic frames
a fleawort leaf on the nose
blue varicose veins on the calves
skin wrinkled on the knees
stretch marks on the sagging belly
the jelly-like thighs
most of all the double
folds of fat on the back
between bra and hips
you look at yourself in the mirror
before leaving for a Greek island
you smile apologetically
a fifty-five-year-old
Aphrodite
to think about a woman
who didn’t do anything special
she made love to a husband
she didn’t love
brought up children
who wouldn’t listen
went to work
she didn’t like
met friends
she had nothing in common with
watched television
which irritated her
read books
which bored her
professed religion
she didn’t believe in
dead
or alive
blindworm in the sun
to watch as she sits
on an express train
from nowhere to nowhere
a cream complexion
platinum hair of a dry autumn
brownish green trousers of a country pond
black hobnailed high-heel shoes
a cornflower thin wool jumper
her index finger
with dark blue varnish on the nail
brushes a touch screen
the fingertip with a unique fingerprint
taps on the names of those
to whom she talks about nothing in particular
killing the time of the journey
from nowhere to nowhere
a slightly aquiline nose
prolonged eyelashes
violet lipstick
rouge on the cheeks
rods of the red sun
on her October legs
the path trodden in the hollow of the spine
descends to the bottom of the valley
cut between two cultivated knolls
where from under decaying leaves
a bitter spring flows
the deserted road to senility and death
through the window of an express train
from nowhere to nowhere
