Interior

It’s a long time I sought to live here,

in this room I pretend to love,

table, careless objects, window

opening at night’s end on other greeneries,

and the blackbird’s heart beats on in dark ivy,

everywhere glimmers complete the well-aged darkness.

I too accept the belief that the air is mild,

that I am at home, that it will be a good day.

There’s just, at the foot of my bed, this spider

(because of the garden), I haven’t stamped

enough, you’d say it was still working

on the trap that awaits my fragile phantom.

Philippe Jaccottet