It’s probably all about
this clean line – Japanese poets,
seventeenth, eighteenth century.
Probably in a small town
which you know well or at least
visited once or twice,
with pines and wooden houses,
a cafe, a church, a derelict Jewish graveyard.
Probably something still remains
in the portfolio of an amateur photographer
(who most likely goes to the capital once a week
to capture scenes), unless
he’s already cropped
these black-and-white trees
and lilac bushes – perhaps not yet.
It’s probably about
a drawing with children, a swing,
a queue outside the shop, with a dog even,
a mutt caught by the dog-catcher
taken away on a flat cart seventeen years ago;
with a candle stub when the light goes out
and when you have to go to bed by candlelight.
The drawing’s to be clean:
underwear dries on a line,
a blue pyjama top’s just falling to the ground,
louder and louder someone’s voice calls out ‘Jurek, Jurek’;
next to the house, in the woods,
Jurek’s sister collects brush.