Forties Flick

The shadow of the Venetian blind on the painted wall,

Shadows of the snake-plant and cacti, the plaster animals,

Focus the tragic melancholy of the bright stare

Into nowhere, a hole like the black holes in space.

In bra and panties she sidles to the window:

Zip! Up with the blind. A fragile street scene offers itself,

With wafer-thin pedestrians who know where they are going.

The blind comes down slowly, the slats are slowly tilted up.

Why must it always end this way?

A dais with woman reading, with the ruckus of her hair

And all that is unsaid about her pulling us back to her, with her

Into the silence that night alone can't explain.

Silence of the library, of the telephone with its pad,

But we didn't have to reinvent these either:

They had gone away into the plot of a story

The „art“ part — knocking what important details to leave out

And the way character is developed. Things too real

To be of much concern, hence artificial, yet now all over the page,

The indoors with the outside becoming part of you

As you find you had never left off laughing at death,

The background, dark vine at the edge of the porch.