Friday, 13 February 2015

За любов/For love


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:
the start of it, a coming home.

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