About the countless last cigarettes
I counted the nineteen butts in the ashtray
what a methodical way to measure time
The clock has stopped many years before we were here.
5 hours of 12.35
– and we both know this isn’t a clock.
The green window panes and old window frames,
nice to imagine we are in some scenes of some movies
that outlive intricate plots and directors’ names.
Another watery square or rectangle she drew
on the wooden top with a coasterless glass.
[‘A proper meal? He’d rather fill the mouth with words unsaid.’]
Baroque elaboration of a recent decade in a life,
Is Truncated Minimalist Sobriety an eventuality?
How would we compile the history of our correspondence
with these fragments stolen from the history of art?
Does it come with pictures?
I should be listening to their conversation
about photography, light and goldfish eyes
but my thought was led
to the tired eyelids of all cameras
resting on the table that a plate would slide at times.
