Inger Christensen

from Letter in April: VII

On the street with our money clutched in our hands, buying bread and scattering breadcrumbs for the bluish doves. Paying to see the fire eater, the cigarette swallower and the dead vagabond who breathes. Greeting the palm tree that sighs at night. Saying a few words to the staring stone figure above the gate. Laughing and rushing in as if chased. In the cool kitchen we prepare and arrange our food. We make it as elegant as we can. Bouquet on the table and all. And we speak