the kitchen song
so strong a wind
blows from the facing mountain range
to the hanging apron in the kitchen,
the roof swings along like a rusty pendulum.
we are farthest from the ambulance
in the street and the cemetery in front of the mountains,
just as we love the peony-embroidered apron,
we love every colored illustration of history.
there is a kettle and a few bottles of wine,
a pear, its moisture sucked dry by the air,
and the chopping board rests modestly next to the water pipes.
in the sunlight,
the kitchen looks like a wild duck combing its feathers.
the kitchen looks very much like its owner,
or his lover’s vanishing hands.
strong winds flip open cupboards.
and blow the apron down by his feet.
scrape grime by the stove,
the box of desire opened brighter by autumn,
we need to sprinkle salt more calmly on wilted grass,
and stir pepper into sleep.
a powerful wind,
brings a special kind of gold
to give to the jewelry maker.
we wait merely in respite between hungers,
what to accept, what is worth a meticulous description.