She’s gone away
on the morning boat
My heart
was too young for her
Wind comes over
the baker’s house
sweet with branch
of burning fir
She’ll never comb
her hair in front of me
I’ll never see
her sweater on a chair
Cinders from the
chimney float
on the absence
of Monica
I spent the morning
with her ghost
We touched the nettles
painlessly
I carry the bread
on a piece of string
and now I’m free
to come and go