Agnes left me five years ago. Today is Good Friday. I went to church and looked at the vestments. The one day of the year when I go to church. I stare at the vestments and hope that they’ll enter my eyes, covering them. On Good Friday, it’s as if I am possessed. I know that the vestments last longer than a day. But as far as I’m concerned, they last a day.

You sit at the head of the table
heady with wine,
and hold forth,

There she is turned into a lollipop
a large egg-shaped lollipop,
not passed around, but twirled in the mouth,

In the seething almost Indian heat
of an exaggerated July in the city
the remaining inhabitants cautiously

Oh really, she’s with somebody?
So she’s with somebody.
Is she really with somebody?

When, thanks to the virtues of wine,
I let go of solid memory and a certain pleasure
seems almost real to me