Blow Up
The park is a blue spider web of frost.
It guards us against invasions from the opposite shore,
from day’s openness, from darkness.
It is a spongy girdle round the house which reabsorbs
our oozings: smells of bed and breakfast, noise of
slammed doors, voices, even thoughts.
It flies it all away in different tree branches
from which we are stared at by all our household gods
and a few beasts.
Binoculars are of no use to embrace the park, much less
to see it: they are only conveniently elliptical.
Either the captive fly between the double windows or, father
out,
the night, the savage bonfires.
