WHEN I WENT TO HIS PLACE
he moved the table away
and leaned the bed
against the wall -
but me he laid
between himself
and the flowering beginning
of our dreams.

He left
before our time was up
before the room
grew decorated
and the bed remained
a heart-warm trap.
November drove snow
through the door.
The table taunts me
with questions.
And only sleep drives me
into bed.

Outside he walks
stooped -
love's bent stick
knocking on the ice.

Translated by Dorothy Porter