One Among Many

They all look eighteen,
indifferent, their cats playing
among driftwood,

their rust-coloured town.
As a garden cultivates
calm, certain

weather
paints and repaints
these walls,

stands
the sky up and
knocks it down.

If they don't look
eighteen, they probably are
eighteen, in their

damned old town.
If they awaken at four,
their yellow hair

is knotted
so they sleep
until seven

– 87 –

then enter
each corridor, flowing,
without complication.

What they add
to this house, their
windows among us,

cultivating these
plains, certain rooms
belonging to

swans. And you,
also, look eighteen,
out on your

western wing,
walking the quiet voices
of the verandah,

your hair like dust in
sunlight, reminding us of
the one thing.