Sipping gins on Vitoshka, posing
questions concerning language acquisition,
archaeologies of sound, we are a right pair.
One day of high summer, mid-March,
and we’re people-watching philosophers
sun-bathing on St Patrick’s Day …
What scrapes kept us awake
and creaking wires along the street
were not his ‘ghostly absences’
whose presences might be yearned for,
those passionate idealists,
now the news we’re reading is largely fake.
Shapes of fallen plaster across the way
might be framed with some art –
but situations change before our very eyes.
Neighbours emerge onto their balconies,
arranging pots of first spring flowers
in the warm slow Balkan rain.