Barges on the Rhine low their mourning.
Water stands high after the rains.
On the opposite bank, the sharp
chimneys of the steelworks entertain us
with reflected-light swordplay. As far
as we can see the meadows are empty,
bushels of grass on mounds above the alluvium.
We lift our glasses. A solitary canoe
is berthing at the jetty.
I don’t have fibromyalgia, you say.
I have cancer. And the silence changes
colour and our eyes won’t meet.