In the room, a moth flies from east to west

In the room, a moth flies from east to west: here inside, too, east and west exist, in the room, in the matchbox and the eye of the needle.

A child throws an orange pip at the window. Bicycles – big and small – lie in each other’s embrace in the year’s last snow, the year’s last freedom,

in which mirrors make themselves transparent, traversable as rooms

in which bricks become mirrors in which you see

the moth’s shadow on your face,

which looks, like the god Janus, at once to east and west, forward and back, and sees the orange-pip at once falling and rising.

 

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