You wished for a panorama.
Holding hands in the elevator,
like teenagers,
we were looking at
the count-up of the floors.
The crunch of gravel on the roof
reminded me of river shores.
The domes of the brassiere
you’d swiftly taken off
absorbed the remains of the summer.
You asked me how I always knew
where the city pools were resting.
Where had all my thirst and the
fear of phone calls come from?
From your bedroom window
the slow stream of the Danube looked like
an exodus of oil.
Each time you hugged me,
I’d stop thinking how
one match was enough.
EN 
MK