Yesterday a House, Today Nothing

In a slow unsyncopated rhythm I pass a house

with one window. I go, I go, I stop. From its huge pane

it summons me: a dark spot, as wide as a cap.

I read about it in an ancient Polish tale. I waver,

lick my nails, watch, weigh my chances: it is a good target,

if not for the stone I throw, then for my landing. It will be

an emergency landing, I can see that, happy to accept this.

What matters is that I get in and fold my parachute, blow away

breadcrumbs and light a fire with my hair. Personal sacrifice

and collective safety. It really burns, but I’m not against it,

not at all. It was burning in the room, a modest drawing room.

A woman in middle age, who had studied piano playing

in London, doled out evergreen melodies, irregular verbs

and slaps, which rang long. Still resounding in my head,

they echo and vanish like smoke when in a slow

unsyncopated rhythm I pass the house.