I still have not spoken to them.
I try, but they’re gone before my wave.
A magician’s act of flowers and mirrors.
The wife appears out one upstairs window,
laughing, disappears, an invisible bird singing,
then flows out another, dreaming her hair down.
One day, a pink pillow case flaps
its lewd humorous tongue at me, and at night
strange notes leap from their chimney to the moon.
In the morning, the husband exits in a rush,
one shoe half off, then returns, bags
overflowing with wine bottles and celery.
I keep waiting for him to race out a trap
door, his wife levitating over his head
like a balloon, the dark skies lush
with fish and loaves of wonder.
Now and then, dancing, laughing footsteps
ghost up and down the stairs, and suddenly
my heart flutters into a dove.
I decide the best applause is silence
when one evening she appears, blue nightgown,
picks up a sliver of bottle with two deft toes,
and spotting me, makes a gentle bow.