Just as it is now, the olive tree on the balcony
the wind transforming the clouds. Beyond the century
in the evenings to come when neither you nor I
will be here, when the years will be branches
to nudge something without purpose,
in the evenings in which other people
will look at each other as they do today
in dreams - in the darkness
like curved moulds of a volcano under white ash.

I fold the sheet and switch off the last light
I let your temples slowly beat against the covers
and let the night kneel down at
your brief November.