I love you, though there's no way I can know.
I think of this when you come home from a day
in your life. But it is not a thought.
You stroke my cheek and who knows,
that gesture. It's made a thousand times
before it exists. Hangs your coat on a peg,
something from nothing, but tomorrow it might
be missing. Or shakes the day from your hair.
What I then see in this, is the beginning.
The house comes about, the table takes its place,
we cause each other. Surely it's unimaginable
that someone's making all this up.

Translation: Willem Groenewegen