The skittish clouds are left to my imagination –

I assume they are bothering the sun because the light


in my bedroom keeps shifting, by turns golden

and muted, the shadow of the window handle


bold then dissolved. The girl in the opposite terrace

is reading on her windowsill as usual. I wonder if,


under the circumstances, we should start waving

at each other. I want to go outside and touch the grass.


The afternoon has sown little seeds of air in my bedside

glass of water. I wash my sheets more frequently


than is necessary. The dates in my diary have vanished

one by one like swallows from a telegraph wire.


The news is death tolls, shortages, government guidelines.

It is incomprehensible how blue the sky is,


how the trees are ruffled in a breeze. The sun returns

and I tug my already-open curtains further apart, greedy.




Also by Jenny,