* * *

Hilde Domin

Don’t get used to it.
 You mustn’t get used to it.
 A rose is a rose.
 But a home
is not a home.

Say no to the lapdog objects
 which wag their tails at you
 from shop windows.
 They’re wrong. You
 don’t smell of permanence.

One spoon is better than two.
 Hang it round your neck
 you may have one
 because it’s too difficult to scoop up
 hot things with your hand.

Sugar would run through your fingers
 like solace
 like a wish
 on the day
 it comes true.

You may have one spoon
 one rose
 perhaps one heart
 and, perhaps,
 one grave.

The Golden Rope

Nothing is as fleeting
as an encounter.

We play like children
 we invite and reject
 as if we had forever.
 We joke with farewells
 we collect tears like marbles
 and check whether knives cut.
 Too soon your name
is called.
 Too soon playtime
is over.

Scared
 we hold on tightly
 to the golden rope 
and resist the departure.
 But it breaks.
 We drift outwards:
 away from the same town
 away from the same world
 under the same
 all intermingling
 earth.