slow things heard in old songs
sad songs sung by the sides of old inns
dry roses clutched by a lover
a wedding dress downriver
you will ask them their names
the women who remember
will ask you in turn where you come from
inside this small country
you are writing a book
it’s unfinished
the evening enfolding you slowly
a soreness in the fingers
who are you they ask
you will get in the car
with the mirror with the silver
flaking in the back
the book will receive much criticism
you knew it from the story
the bride gone downriver
where dusk pulls the sunset
quarter after quarter
so many have written
they will ask you with roses
will ask what to call you
by the river where you come.