In the early evening, a now, as man is bending
Over his writing table.
Slowly he lifts his head; a woman
Appears, carrying roses.
Her face floats to the surface of the mirror,
Marked with the green spokes of rose stems.

It is a form
Of suffering: then always the transparent page
Raised to the window until its veins emerge
As words finally filled with ink.

And I am meant to understand
What binds them together
Or to the gray house held firmly in place by dusk

Because I must enter their lives:
It is spring, the pear tree
Filming with weak, white blossoms.

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