I’ve been summoned. Thursday, at ten sharp.
Lately I’m being summoned more and more often: ten sharp
on Tuesday, ten sharp on Saturday, on Wednesday, Monday. As
if years were a week, I’m amazed that winter comes so close on
the heels of late summer.
On my way to the tram stop, I again pass the shrubs with the
white berries dangling through the fences. Like buttons made
of mother-of-pearl and sewn from underneath, or stitched right
down into the earth, or else like bread pellets. They remind me
of a flock of little