where we stayed under fruit trees.
where with the green claws of lizards
ivy scaled the walls of the palace,
the aged stared into their fishponds
as if into photo albums. the leaves
falling in the park. a brown trout
making a leap for the next chapter.
where all evening behind the white
moon of a lampshade circling moths
purred with the workings of their wings –
the panicked numbers of a clock.
days in the slow month of august
and a final frothing of flowerbeds.
later, drumming on the roof of the car,
apples, small and hard, like children’s fists.