A glimpse: at the high window her face
a moment at a corner of the blind,
the frost forming its flower, in the garden
all the winter leaves so much leather,
so many tongues, scraps of old gossip.
For so little you can die: the price
on a second-hand coat, a finger ring,
the brown shoes in the cupboard, the mirror
where your mother powders her face.
For these you will be taken.
Mice on the stairs, grey packets of dust.
The ice making its maps out of water.
On the square stones of the Prinsensgracht
soldiers’ boots tapping links rechts links.
In its season the chestnut’s sudden blossom.