They prefer maps over the truth
and the number Pi
over professions of love.

They roll out time like a carpet
and shake off blades of dry grass
from their first dates.

They observe parades,
processions and protests
through their curtains.

In stores, Weltschmerz
overwhelms them
among racks of dresses.

At the hospital, they manage
better than old male poets:
they’re closer to physiology than God.

With age, they smile
more frequently,
wink, make space for silence.

Unwillingly,
they become
legends.

24 April 2012

Translated by Karen Kovacik