BEETHOVENSTRAβE

Perhaps I’ll never understand why
you left me at night, left behind
the cloudy dregs of your after-dinner drink,
the scent of your perfume and pearls, warm
around your neck, then
cold from the icy wind in the Beethovenstraβe.

You said there is only one reality, that we
simply occupy different givens and so
indulge in the passage of time. Your time
has passed: the birds, drunk on cherry apples,
no longer congregate at your windowsill
three streets away. I’ve let you go.