It’s not so much to say, a few breaths
adding up to an indication, a hint
at what we might be revealing:
words which slump into meaning,
a promise and a memory –
the best that we might hope for, actually.
After so long, I will step into the kitchen,
ingrained with borrowed jargon, toying
with mistaken punctuation, that world
they think they’ve created –
and recall the fence where lovers left
their padlocks when I was, as you know it,
not so far away in Dubrovnik.
Here, then, is spring and the roses: