The friend who is concerned
with backdrops, not us,
but what we stand against,
his way of looking at the women
he loves,
to not look at them at all
but at roofs, a bit of sky.
To understand when exactly
a woman is angry
because of the way she works
her mouth
he believes will never
be enough.
He opens the glass doors of his house
as the lawn steams with the music
of his daughter.
He has bought a piano
to lure her to him.
The music will never be obsolete,
a vision of the world
in a perfect rain.
As if two friends sat at a table
that suddenly appeared
with wine, the dishes
growing invisible
after they were finished.
A woman spoke—her voice so full of pain
they didn't have to feel pain anymore,
no one, not even that woman,
and such friends
could be direct. All that medicine
for your heart makes you lonely.
Friend, you might as well look
at your daughter, your one
instrument, as well as at the air
around her, dangling and streaming with music.
The music wants you both but knows
when to wait a little bit,
as if such a daughter cannot help
but be destroyed
and found again,
silent and then crying out, silent
and calling
and is that perfect,
that near a heart.