When I got back home, my apartment sighed,
a draught-horse straining at the weight.
The room I had abandoned was left ajar
like an unbuttoned shirt,
a breathing slightly open,
a breathing long obstructed.
The balcony hung over us like a long-legged
morning full of turning iron cranes.
I tried to gnaw through the gray wool knot in my throat.
The freshly washed palm dropped for a moment.
Cranes can turn the world down or
up: they build like thousands of horses.
The demolishing of love is an enduring process.
At times it feels like plucking eyebrows,
then like an operation without anesthetic.
The fridge wheezes, gas installation throws
flashes of lightning and the weather frowns.
A drop keeps spilling over the edge of dirty dishes.
It seems someone had moved into the apartment
on so many of my layers while I was travelling and it
patiently awaited my return.
Now there’s a birdhouse here, and fire devouring it: the good
flame, strong wingbeats separating from water,
flaming cranes, blazing cranes.