In memory of Renata Horowitz
My darling’s photographs
were reflections of her inner eye.
I look at them, and I see what she saw:
a fly on a window, a corner of a frame,
two riders on horseback,
a bunch of ripe blackberries.
What did she see just before
she lost control of the car?
It was twilight, when apparitions appear.
Her friend who survived
said she was pointing at something.
Then memory stops.
What’s essential is invisible
to the eye. But what shall I do
now there’s nothing solid
left for me to hold onto?
When one thing shifts, all else moves
like clear water when you step into it.
Now everything goes against the current.
In the crosswinds, I hear her saying,
When you get lost, you have a chance
to find out who you are.