I’m sitting in the garden, apparently alone,
with a glass of Chivas Regal in my hand.
It is that short grey-rose point in the twilight
when the vesper bat replaces the swallows.
I’m going nowhere. Soon time to be dissolved
into nothing. The houses have given up their outlines.
And the maple is reduced to darkness.
No, I am not alone.
A farmer appears right opposite me,
with a rim of snus under his quivering lip,
stretches out from his century towards the glass.
In this summer evening without substance
the past acquires the sharpness of Dürer.
I nudge my glass over to this other person.
From the meadow giggling and horny shrieks can be heard,
thin as a leaf of a bible but distinct.
The night is strong with death and love.
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